Weapon and the Wound
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Set after 3.10, Dream a Little Dream of Me. An unreal heat, an unusual enemy, and an unresolved relationship buffet the brothers through the storm of Dean's deal. No wound is healed without leaving a scar. T for language and adult situations. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: My thanks to Kripke for creating characters fascinating enough to bury their claws into my imagination and draw forth tales with a need to be told. Still don't own them. More's the pity.

Title is from _Days of the New_ song of the same name.

Aside from some of the locations and the Gaelic spoken in the story, pretty much everything from the bad guys to the resolution is fabricated. To quote Chaucer from _A Knight's Tale_, "I'm a writer. I give the truth scope."

**Spoiler:** This takes place right after episode 3.10 _Dream a Little Dream of Me_. Anything prior to that is fair game.

**a/n**: Sorry it's been awhile, guys. RL has been a bit of a handful lately.

This story returns the character of Brenna Kavanagh to the boys. I introduced her in _Holding On to Let Go_, and she appeared in both _Within My Hands _and _Into the Fire._ I fully understand that OFC's are not extremely popular in this fandom, and wanted to warn you up front. However, as with all stories that Brenna is in, this is ultimately a story about the brothers. I've also brought back a couple of other OC's from some of my previous fics, but I've tried to keep them contained so that if you're not familiar with the story of their origin, you can still enjoy this one.

If I've done this right, this story is about humanity and the mistakes we make while looking for salvation on whatever journey we embark upon. If you choose to read, I hope you enjoy.

Many thanks to my wonderfully patient beta, Kelly. Also? SJ and T, having you read this for me gives me the boost of confidence I need. I owe you.

Okay, 'nuff said.

* * *

_When you dig my grave, could you make it shallow so that I can feel the rain?_

_-- Gravedigger, Dave Matthews Band_

www

Time was a fluid force that brought forth pain and joy inside of one very real heartbeat. It captured and shunned, persevered and punished. It was at the same time both plausible and unreal, and it never stopped.

It never stopped.

But he needed to _make it_ stop. He needed to control the effects, the ravished effects such a force wrought upon the only thing that mattered to him. The only _one_ that mattered to him.

The payment for such control no longer mattered to him. He'd hide, he'd seek, he'd cease to live what had once passed for his life if in exchange he gained this power. His world was surrounded by books, spells, weapons, and wounds. He breathed, he bled, he existed, but he no longer truly lived.

And he wouldn't live until he'd won. Until he'd found the source. Until he'd found the control.

Until.

www

**Pittsburgh, PA**

"Sam."

Sam shifted in the seat, staring at his brother's profile, acutely aware that the air inside the Impala had just stilled. The fine hairs on his cheeks and the back of his neck came to attention. The bruises on his legs—that he'd yet to tell Dean about—throbbed painfully.

And his mouth went dry. "Yeah?" He very nearly whispered the word.

Dean was staring at the top of the steering wheel, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the death throes of denial. Sam was aware of his brother's hands. It seemed like a strange thing to notice. The world was motionless, but Dean's hands still moved; blunted, powerful fingers ceaselessly grazing the ridges of the Impala's wheel.

Dean cleared his throat, setting Sam on edge, his breath stalling at the base of this throat.

"I've been doing some thinking. And…" Dean paused. "Well, the thing is… I don't wanna die."

_What did you see when you left me in your dream?_ Sam thought. _What were you _really_ looking for, Dean? It wasn't me. I know that much._

Dean looked at him askance, his eyes so full of raw honesty that Sam felt his skin tighten.

"I don't wanna go to Hell." His brother's voice was hushed, but had the same effect as if he'd screamed the words.

Sam nodded, feeling a giddy rush of true relief. _At last_, his heart beat. _At last he'll fight _with_ me against this. At. Last._

"Alright," Sam said, nodding confidently, looking to infuse the motionless air with a sense of assurance. Looking to slow the nervous twitch of his brother's fingers. "Yeah. We'll find a way to save you."

Dean's mouth tripped up in a weak, hopeful grin and once more the world turned. "Okay," he said, looking forward again. "Good."

Sam saw him shift his eyes to the side, the shadow of fear slipping smoothly across his brother's features like cloud cover.

"I, uh… I've been thinking, too," Sam said, drawing Dean's eyes and gaining a curious lift of his brow.

"Yeah?"

Sam nodded. "We don't have any leads on Bela," he started. "She could be half-way across the world by now."

"What's your point?" Dean said, hidden anxiety forcing an edge to his voice that Sam knew he didn't mean.

"I think we should focus on, uh… on you," Sam ventured.

"Yeah?" Dean asked, his face a scattered puzzle. "How?"

Sam licked his lips, suddenly offered the opportunity he'd been seeking for weeks. "I want to go back to Buffalo."

Dean tipped his chin to the side, his gaze darting to the front window, then slowly tracking back to Sam. "You lost me."

"To Dad's storage unit."

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it with a click of teeth. Sam waited a beat; he knew he'd caught his brother off-guard, as was his intention. Dean argued the strongest when he'd already anticipated Sam's suggestions.

"There was a ton of stuff in there, Dean. I mean, we barely searched through it, once we found out that curse box was missing."

Dean nodded slowly.

"And," Sam continued, "I've read every book Bobby has. I've talked to contacts and, well, I just think… I think maybe…"

"You think we're out of options," Dean said, his voice purposefully empty.

"No!" Sam turned, fully facing him, and leaned forward, his voice strong, forceful. "No, I don't. Not at all. I told you I was gonna get you out of this."

Dean shook his head once. Sam wasn't sure if it was in disbelief or denial. Stretching an opened hand toward his brother, Sam said, "Listen. You said it yourself. We spent all our lives with the guy, and neither of us really _knew_ Dad. There's no telling what he's got hidden in that unit."

"Yeah, but… you're talking about a miracle, Sam."

"Not necessarily," Sam dropped his hand, resting his curled knuckles on his knee. "Dad knew about stuff like… crossroad deals. I mean, he taught us about 'em. He could have known about other… y'know, kinds of deals. Could have had… I don't know, leads, or spells, or…"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "But don't you think he'd have told Bobby, if—"

"No," Sam replied quickly. "I've mined that source, man. I've pumped Bobby for more information than the man wanted to give. If Dad knew, he didn't tell Bobby."

Silence rested awkwardly between them for a moment.

"It's worth a shot," Dean said softly, his eyes down, face pulled close in thought.

"Yeah," Sam exhaled, hope wrapped around the word. _Please, Dean, please. Give me this. Give me this chance. I _can't_ lose you._

Dean nodded slowly, a hand snaking from the steering wheel to rub unconsciously across his ribcage. "What about Bela?"

"She took the Colt for a reason," Sam said. "She's either gonna sell it, or she's gonna use it. Either way, we're going to have to do some tracking to find her."

Dean lifted a brow, pulling his head up with the motion. "No reason we can't multi-task."

Sam nodded, his face relaxing with a grin. "Exactly."

Dean's confession of fear had put his brother in the very rare situation of looking to Sam for guidance, and Sam was more relieved than he wanted to admit that he had a direction to point them in.

"Wanna tell Bobby?" Dean tucked his bottom lip in against his teeth.

Sam thought of the weary worry that pulled their old friend's face into hollows and shadows and shook his head. "He's been through a lot, Dean. I mean, not that we all haven't, but—"

"No, you're right. We can tell him later." Dean twisted the keys and ignited the engine.

Sam rolled his neck, sliding one arm across the back of the bench seat, propping his other elbow on the windowsill and tenting his fingers on his thigh. Dean's need to check in with Bobby tugged at his heart. Even after all this time leading, his brother still needed a general to follow, a touchstone, a home base. Sam's base sat next to him, but Dean's…

Dean's had been lost to the universal struggle between good and evil, and even now he sought to replace it.

"Find me some road music," Dean said, nodding toward the box of cassette tapes they'd slowly been replacing since the accident. "If I'm gonna make it to Buffalo, I am gonna need me some tunes."

Sam leaned down as his brother shifted to drive, picking up the box of tapes and ticking through the plastic cases. "Why?" He grinned, eyes on the names of the bands. "You tired or something?"

Dean shot him a _bite me, smart ass_ look. "Haven't been sleeping much lately."

Sam plucked a case from the box, slipped the tape into the player, then sat back as music immediately drummed through the interior of the car.

_"…are you deaf; you wanna hear some more? We're just talking about the future, forget about the past. It'll always be with us. It's never gonna die. Never gonna die…"_

"That's the stuff," Dean sighed, turning up the volume loud enough that Sam felt the beat inside his bones, his body almost visibly shaking from the power.

He relaxed, watching the roadside slip by as Dean pointed them toward New York. His legs ached, but not to the point he couldn't bear. He figured the bruises there would get worse before they got better. His jacket sleeves covered the tale-tell show of rope burn.

Rope burn from a dream rope.

Rope burn from the imagination of a twisted, damaged mind.

A mind inside of a person that Sam had killed, just as surely as if he'd felt Jeremy's beating heart slow and stop beneath his hands.

A mind that was wounded and tortured and hopeless—

"Sam!"

He jerked awake at the sound of his brother's sharp voice.

"What?" He pulled close to the door, retreating from the weight of the hand on his arm.

"Easy, man," Dean was saying, his stern, worried eyes shifting between the golden halos of streetlights splitting the dusk and Sam's sweaty profile. "Take it easy."

"What happened?" Sam muttered, straightening up and wiping his face, surprised to find his hands like slippery ice.

"You fell asleep," Dean said, reaching for the radio and turning the music down. "And then…"

Sam looked over at him. "Then?"

"Sam," Dean shifted his eyes to the side, his face a demand for truth. "How did you get rid of Jeremy? No bullshit, man."

"I already told you," Sam sighed, dropping his head back against the seat and closing his now-burning eyes. "I… conjured… or whatever the hell you want to call it… his Dad."

"And that's it?"

"Basically, yeah." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why?"

"'Cause you whispered _I'm sorry_ in your sleep," Dean said, his voice a low growl.

Sam was silent. Looking out through the side window, he curled his fingers tight against his palms, feeling the weight of the bat, the crack of the impact with Jeremy's head.

"Don't know what to tell you," Sam said. "Guess it's my Catholic guilt."

"Guess so," Dean muttered. He waited a beat, then, "We're about twenty miles out. I'm gonna get some gas. Want anything?"

"I'll run in," Sam offered, stretching his hands out in front of him as Dean pulled off the highway, exiting at a _Gas, Food, Lodging_ sign. They passed two no-tell motels before they reached the gas station.

Sam sighed, searching through the glove box for the stash of cash, thinking that he could probably describe the interior of each location down to the décor. His childhood was peppered with disjointed memories of motels, his youth saturated with their smoke-stale smell, his adulthood dependant upon their anonymity.

"Lemme guess," he yawned, looking over at his brother as Dean opened the door, moving stiffly. "Coffee and Peanut M&Ms."

"And one of those Hostess fruit pie thingies," Dean grinned. "Gas station pie. Awesome."

"You're a freak, man."

Dean swung a leg out, glancing over his shoulder. "Takes one to know one."

Sam lumbered slowly to the gas station mart, gathered their supplies, then stepped up to the counter. "This, and whatever goes in the black Chevy out there," he said to the attendant.

The older man nodded, not taking his eyes from a small TV tucked under the counter, a talk-show TV audience cheering loudly as someone yelled, _"Is that what you want? Huh? You want me to tell you I slept with him?"_

Sam waited patiently, feeling his will fold in on itself as the attendant slowly rang up his purchases, the man's attention riveted to the happenstance of the random. Sam forced a smile across stiff cheeks, telling himself that his issues were unknown to this man who was moving like molasses in wintertime, uncaring that he was in a universe of _hurry_.

Sam's reasons for being on constant alert were a secret, his frustration at finding nothing—_nothing_—in all this time irrelevant to the world. He pulled in a slow breath, handing over the money and waited for change, glancing out through the double doors to see Dean leaning against the Impala, one hand pressed to his chest, his head bowed.

_I think we _both_ saw more in that dreamscape than we're saying. _

Gathering the food and drinks, Sam headed to the Impala, nodding back at Dean as he got closer. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to drive, but Dean swung around to slip behind the wheel before Sam could gather enough courage to bring it up. Despite the purplish smudges of exhaustion beneath his brother's green eyes, despite the tired curve of his shoulders, or the stiff motion of his arms, or the slow-assed blink that sent shivers of worry down Sam's neck every time there was a gap of darkness between the streetlights on the highway, Dean would drive.

He would drive because they were once again headed to dig deeper into the biggest unknown of their lives: their father's past.

And Sam knew that regardless if they found a possible lead—or, God help him, a _solution_—in the hunt to save Dean from hell, the search alone would tease up memories neither of them were in any condition to contend with.

_I don't wanna go to Hell_…

Sam took a breath, working to refocus his thoughts on the hunt, and not the contemplation of life on Earth without Dean. Without his family.

Alone.

In Hell.

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**Buffalo, NY**

When his dad was alive, he survived because of him.

He watched, he waited, he listened, he loved, he saved. There were conversations, there were _talks_. But it was only after John was no longer accessible, no longer simply not calling back, no longer just being stubborn, that Dean realized he'd never really known his father.

Now that his dad was dead, he simply survived.

He'd made sure that Sam had survived as well. As they rode in the service elevator to John's storage unit, Dean found himself wondering if the man he'd grown up with, the man he'd loved, would have approved of what he'd done. Would have seen it as a worthy sacrifice. Or if letting Sam go had been the point of John's cryptic deathbed message all along.

"You okay?" Sam's voice was hushed, as if they were visiting someplace sacred.

_Maybe we are_.

"Yeah," Dean pulled his heavy head away from the wall, stifling another yawn and blinking his eyes wide. His chest ached, but Sam was watching him too closely. Easing the ache with a helpless hand now would give away a weakness. "Know what time it is?"

Sam shrugged, his hands stuffed deep into his jeans pockets. "After sunset, before sunrise."

"That's helpful," Dean rotated to face the opening as the compartment slowed. "What would I do without you?"

"Eat your weight in pie," Sam grumbled.

"Ha fuckin' ha," Dean heaved the gate up and held it in place as Sam ducked beneath. He followed, letting the gate fall closed. He shivered slightly in the cool enclosure of the storage facility, regretting leaving his leather jacket back in the Impala. Glancing at his brother, he held out a hand. "Got the extra light?"

"You said you were getting it," Sam returned.

"Did not!"

"Did so!" Sam stood with his arms spread. "You said, got a light."

Dean thrust his chin forward in disbelief. "Yeah, as in… got a light?"

Sam stared at him a moment, then waved a dismissive hand toward his face. "Forget it, man. We only need one."

"Give it here."

"No way," Sam held the heavy, black flashlight aloft as they stopped in front of the unit door. "I brought it, I use it."

"You're a real pain in the ass, you know it?"

Sam tipped his chin toward the lock. "Just open the door, Jerk."

Dean crouched in front of the lock as Sam shone the beam of the flashlight on the opening. Lock pick clenched between his teeth, he couldn't resist muttering, "Bitch," in response.

In moments, he heard and felt the spring of the lock give way, and they stepped into the dusty container, the beam of Sam's light skidding over the rust-colored bloodstains from the earlier attempt to bypass John's 'security system.' Feeling his way along the wall, Dean searched for some sort of switch to help illuminate their surroundings. He came up empty.

"Nice, Dad," he muttered.

"What?" Sam swung the light around and shot it toward Dean's eyes.

"Dude!" Dean squinted, raising a hand in defense. Sam lowered the light. "How the hell did he work in here without any lights?"

"Maybe he didn't," Sam shrugged, moving past the wire mesh wall and skimming his fingers through the dust that covered the land mines. "Maybe he just… came in, put stuff down, walked away."

Dean sighed, following Sam's light and the careful path of his brother's fingers. As Sam left him behind in the shadows, Dean felt blindly along the table until he found an opened box of bullets. Picking one out, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the tip, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a rueful grin as he felt the hatch marks of a cross.

_Silver bullet…_ In some ways, John was as predictable as a broken clock. Carving crosses into the tips of bullets was almost a signature.

The room felt tomb-like, the air stale, old, secret. As if all of the darkness that his father had trapped inside of the curse boxes stored on the far shelf was simply waiting for the right moment. The memory of his father was so strong inside of these walls that Dean closed his eyes, imagining the purposeful stride, the sound of the well-placed steps he'd grown to count on in his youth, moving through the darkened recesses of the room, keeping the world safe from one more evil.

"Hey," Sam called.

Dean lifted his head, making out Sam's silhouette in the dusty twilight that haloed his brother's imposing form.

"Yeah."

"I think… I think there's another room here, man." Sam shone the light on the floor, tracing a path.

Dean stepped forward. "A room?"

"Yeah, there are grooves in the floor…" Sam bent to the side, grunting as he pushed against the shelf of curse boxes. "Like this shelf has been moved a few times."

Skirting the cobweb-covered bench that had been home to Sam's soccer trophy for so many years, Dean reached for the other edge of the shelf, trying to discern some kind of doorway-like shape. Sam tucked the flashlight under his chin to free his hands. Together, they carefully moved the shelf a few inches to the side, keeping the boxes balanced.

Sam moved further around the other side of the shelf, peering through the gap.

"There's definitely a room back here, Dean."

"Can you see anything?" Dean asked when Sam moved the flashlight to the narrow opening.

"Doesn't look very big… I, uh," Sam shifted, the beam slipping down toward the floor. "I can see some… boxes."

Dean saw the glimmer of silver wire reflect in the bouncing beam.

_Tripwire. Shit._

"Sam, don't move."

Instinctively turning toward his brother's voice, Sam lifted his eyes. "Wha—"

As Sam turned, his weight pushed the shelf a bit further out, away from the hidden room.

"SAM!"

Dean charged forward, knowing with absolute certainty that if the room had been hidden, and secured with a tripwire, the results would be disastrous.

For a moment, time slowed, almost ceasing all together. Dean registered the surprised intake of air as his shoulder slammed into Sam's bulk with enough force to tip his brother forward and down. He heard the _cluck-swish_ of a triggered mechanism releasing, felt the vacuum of air press close around them for the space of a blink, and then his world was an explosion of sound, dust, and tiny pellets of pain.

With a muffled cough, Sam shifted beneath him and Dean felt the world spin. He rolled off of his brother, lying on his side, working to breathe. As if caught in a sludge of frozen air, oxygen beat a harsh tattoo against his rib cage, working to inflate his lungs.

Dean felt Sam's hand clumsily smack the air, looking for purchase. He lifted his arm and relaxed when his brother's long fingers wrapped around his wrist.

"Dude!" Sam gasped, dragging in the air Dean's tackle had forced from him. "What. The. Hell."

"Tripwire," Dean grunted.

"What?" Sam pushed himself up to his elbows. The flashlight Sam had managed to hold on to through the strange blast clattered free and rolled, the circled end of the beam cresting the far wall with a dizzy arc of light. "I mean… _what_?!"

Dean pointed, but in the gloom of the shadowed room, he knew Sam couldn't see. "There was a tripwire across the doorway." His voice was strained as the pain in his back intensified.

"Triggering what?"

"Some kind of… blast or something."

"You okay?" Sam's voice grew tight.

Dean took a tentative breath, feeling his abused skin weep in reaction. "Not sure."

"You bleeding?"

Dean licked his lips, tasting salt and dust. He could feel sticky wetness that could only be blood trailing down his back; it was on fire in a hundred different places. "Yeah. You?"

"Not really. How bad?" Dean felt Sam lean toward him with the question.

"Not… sure," he grunted, pushing himself to his knees and deflecting Sam's inquisitive hand. "Take it easy. I'm okay."

"Dean—"

"Find your light, man," Dean said, his voice suddenly sharp as panic swept through him. The room around them was a jumble of displaced boxes and bent and mangled metal shelving. "We have to check those boxes."

"Oh, shit," Sam muttered, and Dean heard him scramble in a crab-crawl toward the light. "Why the hell did Dad put a… bomb or whatever behind a shelf of curse boxes?"

"To protect something pretty damned important," Dean said softly, glancing up once as Sam shone the light on his face.

"You look like crap, dude," Sam said, moving over to the boxes.

"At least it wasn't an incendiary device," Dean said, standing carefully and gripping the toppled shelf and sliding it to the side, away from the destroyed doorway. "I think it was filled with rock salt or something."

"Tastes like it," Sam commented, spitting. "He had this whole place rigged up to keep the bad guys away."

Together they crouched, the flashlight resting on the floor between them, and turned over each box, checking to make sure the lids were closed and locked. When they had all of the boxes back on the partially-mangled shelf, Dean took a relieved breath, then winced as his chest and back protested in unison.

"Ready to see what the big deal is?" Sam asked, picking up the flashlight and shining it at the now-exposed doorway.

Dean nodded once, suddenly not trusting his voice. John had always been an enigma when it came to hunting. Telling them what he felt they needed to know to do their jobs and stay alive, but not very forthright when it came to revealing exactly _how_ he got all his information. There were whole facets of the hunting life Dean and Sam had never been exposed to—the _Roadhouse_ for one.

The idea that John may have had something in this dusty, secret storage unit that was so important he not only hid it behind a wall that appeared to have been constructed from cinder block, but protected it with a trip-wire triggered land mine filled with rock salt made Dean both hopeful and fearful.

_What if there's something there that could save me?_

"Dean?"

"Right here."

"You okay?"

"Let's just do this, Sam."

Leading with the light, Sam stepped into the closet-like enclosure, carefully searching the floor, walls, ceiling for any other surprising _keep out or else_ weapons. Dean stuck his head in, watching as Sam cleared the room, finding nothing in the small space to their right. Sam backed into the empty space, giving way to Dean.

He stepped in, then looked to his left at the stack of wooden boxes marked 'grenades.'

"You don't think those are… _really_ grenades… do you?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"One way to find out," Dean muttered, moving forward, the flashlight tossing his shadow across the boxes. Carefully, he started to separate the stack.

On top of each box was a strip of wide, white medical tape, one word written in John's neat block-letter handwriting. _Weapons, Spells, Boys, Campbell_.

"Dean…" Sam started, his voice tight.

Dean reached for the one marked _Boys_. Flipping the latch, he carefully opened the wooden lid, licking his lips nervously. No grenades were inside, but he found himself almost wishing for something to explode and relieve the pressure in his heart.

He sank to his knees.

"Sam," he tried, his voice wavering. "Look."

Sam crouched next to him, the flashlight illuminating pieces of their past.

"These… these are ours," Sam said, emotion turning his words into syrup.

The soccer trophy and sawed-off shotgun had been the tip of the iceberg. Inside the wooden box, protected in this hidden room, were items from their childhood that Dean had been convinced were left behind at various motels and hide-outs.

Dean's first report card without any C's. Sam's letter from the dean of a school complimenting him on academic excellence. The card Sam had made for John for Father's Day when he was five. The letter Dean had written to Mary when he was eight. A deflated soccer ball, a bullet mold with the letters D and W carved into the bottom. A picture of his family Sam had drawn that caused a pivotal parent/teacher meeting one year. The cast from Dean's arm that Pastor Jim, Caleb, Bobby, John, and Sam had all signed.

"He kept them," Sam said, the tears in his voice now evident on his dust-streaked face. "He kept them all."

Dean could only nod. Running his palm down his face, he swiped away the salt and dust particles from his eyes, making them sting from more than pent-up tears. Leaving Sam to stare at the box of memories, he turned to the box marked _Campbell_. The label was older than the rest. Worn, faded. He knew that had been his mother's maiden name and found himself once again holding his breath as he opened the lid.

Inside were pictures. Polaroid's, photos, and negatives. Dean reached in and pulled out a handful, hearing the _ting_ of a small piece of metal falling from his grip.

"Sam," he called. "Shine that light over here."

Sam complied and Dean saw the glimmer of silver on the cement floor.

"Is that…"

"I think it's Mom's," Dean whispered, picking up the tiny object. He slid it to the top knuckle of his pinky. "Small hands."

"Wedding ring?"

Dean shook his head. "No, she probably still had that on when… anyway there's some design on it."

"What are the pictures of?" Sam crawled closer.

"Us. Them. Everything," Dean said, flipping through the images of a life lost. "_Everything_. Sam… he hid it all back here. He… hid _us_ back here."

Sam sniffed, nodding. "Pretty amazing, huh?"

Dean started to nod, but the rush of anger that surfaced turned his tears into steam and dried his throat with vengeance. "No. No it's not amazing," Dean shook his head, pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the protest of his body. He felt his body grow almost rigid with the need to release the tension building in his gut. "I think it's pretty fucking un-amazing, actually."

"Dean…"

"You have any idea he saved all this, man? 'Cause I sure as hell didn't!" Dean kicked the box of pictures, feeling satisfaction at the sight of it skipping across the floor to bounce against the wall. "The man was a coward, Sam."

"What?!" Sam's voice was hushed with shock.

Dean turned to face his brother, his hands out to the sides in helpless frustration. "He. Was. A. Coward. He was afraid of himself, of us… he was so fucking afraid of telling us how much he cared that he put everything in a box and hid it in the back room of a storage place we never knew about."

"Maybe he was planning on telling us someday," Sam hedged.

"Before or after he decided to sell his soul to save me?" Dean shouted without thinking.

Sam was quiet. Dean swallowed, the chill left behind in the air after his words sucked the heat from the room making him shiver.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said softly. "I… I didn't mean—"

"Forget it," Sam said sadly. "Let's… let's take these boxes back to the car. Go through them later."

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed, suddenly exhausted.

His body had been slowly ticking from the moment he and Sam had jerked awake in the car after Jeremy had been defeated. He had _felt _it ticking. He realized now that the ticking had slowed. The last adventure with the rock-salt land mine almost stopped it all together. He bent to pick up the box marked _Weapons_ and nearly toppled as a wave of dizziness swept over him.

"Whoa—" Sam reached out quickly, gripping his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice slurring despite his efforts to keep up the front. "Just tired."

"Your back is a mess, man," Sam shone the light on it. "Looks like it took the most of the hit."

"Yeah, well," Dean shrugged, forcing the side of his mouth up into a half-cocked smile. "Who's gonna save my pretty ass if I let you go and get yourself blown up, huh?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not _that_ pretty," he muttered, turning to heft the box marked _Weapons_ into his arms.

Dean tilted his head, frowning. "It's kinda pretty," he said, gathering up the box of photos. "Or so I've been told…"

www

**Brookville, PA**

Obscenely, he found he enjoyed watching the red, blue, and brilliant white lights of the police, fire, and ambulance on scene dance across the narrow walls in the small, dirty alleyway. They illuminated the narrow passage, tossing shadows on the brick buildings and turning the dead of night into the middle of the day.

_Dead of night…_

He chuckled at his own gallows humor, unconsciously caressing the scar that slipped down the side of his once-handsome face, marking him as one of the unwanted. The feared. Crouching on the shadowed, upper parapet of the mangled steel fire escape, he mused that he felt a little like an avenging angel, watching, listening, judging.

He was enough in the shadows to remain hidden, but enough in the scene to absorb every detail.

"You seen anything like this before?"

"Once."

"Yeah?"

"'Bout fifteen years ago. My first case."

He listened to the hushed exchange between the rookie and the veteran cop, watched their body language as they took in the scene at their feet. The young cop kept his hands near his weapon as if the bodies might suddenly reanimate and leap up at him. The vet, however, simply stood, hands at his sides, shoulders bowed, having seen too much darkness and too much death.

A criminalist moved carefully around the bodies, snapping photographs of each tiny piece of evidence, each cut, the pool of blood, the eyes caught with both death and terror.

"I don't get it, Ross," the young cop's voice turned into venom.

"What don't you get?" Ross replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

"This one is all cut up… cut up _bad_. But… no blood pool. This one… she ain't got a scratch on her, but she bled out."

Ross nodded, seemingly waiting for the rookie to come to a conclusion he'd already met.

"What are we dealing with here?"

Ross sighed. "You believe in… magic?"

High above, the observer stifled a laugh. He'd lived on the fringe so long, seeing the truth between the lines of lies that people told each other—told _themselves—_to get through each day that he sometimes forgot that they had to be convinced. That they didn't just believe.

"Magic?" The rookie sounded as though he wanted to laugh, but was afraid his superior wasn't kidding.

"Black magic."

"Like, what? Occult stuff?"

"Maybe," Ross nodded.

"You believe in that shit?"

Ross turned toward him and paused, leaning close. "You don't?"

The rookie pulled back, obviously surprised.

"Calhoun, you been around as long as I have," Ross stated matter-of-factly as he began to move away from the bodies of the women, " you see the things I've seen… there ain't much you _won't_ believe."

"Yeah, but… witches and shit?" Calhoun scrambled after Ross. "Seriously?"

Above on the parapet, the observer chuckled. "Seriously," he said quietly, waiting until the two policemen had moved a safe distance away, then swung down a few levels to get a better view of the bodies.

They had been tied to posts, close enough to see each other, but too far away to touch. He could tell they were sisters, or perhaps mother and daughter, by the similar fine-boned features, body type, hairstyle. The younger one had been cut multiple times on her arms, legs, and torso, her skirt hiked high around her waist to expose the tender, vulnerable point of flesh at the top of her thigh, and her blouse had been opened, though her bra remained intact.

Her face was turned away, death capturing an expression of sadness on the beautiful features.

The other was fully clothed, and the phrase _covered in blood_ had never had more meaning. It was as if someone had soaked her clothes in blood and then re-dressed her. But, as Calhoun had so astutely pointed out, there were no visible wounds. Nothing big enough to have created such an exsanguinated mess.

It was as if her pores opened and released her life as she watched her loved one die.

"The sufferer and the witness," a soft female voice said from below him.

He jerked, surprised despite the fact that he prided himself on always being aware, always knowing when someone was approaching. It had saved his life on more than one occasion. Steadying his suddenly skittering breath, he looked down. In the shadows tossed across the buildings from the lights of the emergency vehicles, stood a woman. As he watched, she lifted her face, her eyes luminous even in the dark.

"_Diadhuit_," she said softly, surprising him once more. She had spoken to him in Gaelic, somehow knowing that he would understand.

He responded automatically, "_Dia is Muire dhuit_."

"I'm coming up," she said, and before he could protest, began to climb the fire escape carefully until she was perched beside him, balanced like a cat. He half expected her to twitch a tail.

She was small, he saw, but built. Strength resonated from her in such a way that he didn't feel the automatic desire to curl his lip in disgust. Women offered him nothing but trouble and heartache and he'd had enough of that in his life. He was happy to be done with them.

"I know who you are," she said.

Squaring his shoulders, he curled his hand around the small knife he kept at his waist. "That makes one of us."

"You're a hunter, Griffin."

He flinched when she said his name. This situation was taking a downward turn that he wasn't prepared for. He wanted out. Now.

And yet… he felt himself drawn to this iron-like waif with eyes too large for her face.

"And you?"

"I know hunters. I'm not one."

"What are you, then?"

She smiled her answer and Griffin felt suddenly wary. There was power in this girl. She was dressed simply: jeans, serviceable boots, long-sleeved shirt and jacket. Her hair appeared red, though it was wound up in a knot at the back of her head, pulled away from her face and exposing her unusual eyes to the night.

"You know what did this," she stated, tilting her head to the scene below, keeping her gaze on him.

"I do," he nodded. There was only one weapon in the world that could cause wounds such that killed these women.

"Do you know _who_ did this?"

Griffin shook his head. "Doesn't much matter to me."

"Yeah, well… it does to me," she replied. "I'm here to offer you a deal."

At once Griffin was again balanced. Here was a language he understood. His body settled into an automatic pose of resistance, his eyes dulling, his lips twisting in a mock sneer. "What do you have that I could possibly want?"

"I can get you the Kestrel dagger," she replied, chilling him once more.

"You know about the dagger?"

She nodded. "And… I know why you want it."

Griffin narrowed his eyes. "There's no way you could—"

"Beck," she said simply, silencing him. "_Ar dheis De go raibh a anam_."

Griffin felt his breath still, lacking the strength to exit his lungs, to escape through the sudden barren wasteland that was his throat. Working to wrap his lips around coherent words, he said in a strangled voice, "There is no peace where my brother rests."

"You want the dagger?" she pressed. "You want to use it? You need the owner."

"What do you mean?"

"The dagger will only work with the right power. The owner has that power. And I need him."

"Why?"

She looked away. "I have my reasons."

Griffin watched her a moment. Watched the flash of her throat as she breathed, watched the tick in her jaw as thoughts bombarded her, watched the slow blink of her eyes as they rested on the bodies below.

"So what's this deal, then?" He said finally.

She looked back at him. "We work together."

"I work alone," he replied automatically. He had been alone since he'd lost Beck to the deárthair. And he meant to keep it that way. No more blood on his hands that he didn't intentionally put there.

The woman rested her forearm on her bent knee, tilting her face to the side inquisitively. "Aren't you wondering how I found you, Griffin? How I know who you are?"

He stared back at her, his curiosity strong enough to boil his blood, but he was too stubborn to ask.

"I can find things," she said. "I know things."

"Anyone with a library card can say that," Griffin shrugged.

She smiled again, and Griffin felt his stomach tighten. As if she'd reached a decision, she nodded once, then straightened, forcing him to tip his head up to keep her in his sights.

"You change your mind, I'll be at the Milton. Ask for Patti Smith."

"Hey," Griffin called in a stage whisper as the girl turned and wrapped slim fingers around the grip of the fire escape ladder. "That your real name?"

With a low chuckle she lifted her head, pinning him with her eyes once more. "No," she said, then climbed down to slip between the shadows and escape the scene.

Griffin watched her go, then turned his attention to the young coroner below them that approached the bodies beside Calhoun.

"What a mess," the coroner said.

"Tell me about it," Calhoun muttered. "Don't envy you, Chief."

"Carter," the coroner corrected, his voice irritated.

"Whatever," Calhoun shrugged. "You wrap 'em up and let me know when I can send the criminalists in here to pack up their evidence."

Calhoun moved away and Griffin watched Carter sigh, then crouch beside the sliced-up woman. Gently, he lifted her hand and slipped a plastic bag over her fingers, preserving the fingernail evidence that may have been left behind. Griffin watched the small man work for a few more moments, then climbed back up to the parapet, glancing back once more.

_Patti Smith. The Milton._

This night just got a lot more interesting.

www

**Buffalo, NY**

There were a few things Sam counted on in life. Things that were simply true, that he never had to wonder about, that he measured his life by.

One such thing was his brother's stubborn resolve to keep moving forward despite his body's protestations to the contrary. So, it didn't surprise him when they finished loading the boxes into the back seat of the car that Dean quietly slipped his navy blue jacket on over his wounded back—to protect the car seats from his blood—and settled himself behind the wheel.

It also didn't surprise him that Dean peeled out of the lot, Brian Johnson screaming that they'd been thunderstruck, while the morning sun began to chase the twilight from the sky.

What did surprise him, though, was the stutter of the car's motion a few moments later, the swerve of the Impala across the road, and the slump of his brother's wounded body against the driver's door.

"Dean!" Sam cried out, reaching for the steering wheel and sliding across the seat in one motion. "Dean, put your foot on the brake. _Put your foot on the brake_!"

Dean roused slightly, shifting beneath Sam subtly as Sam struggled to get his long leg under the steering column and slow the car.

"Dean! You stubborn… son of a… _bitch_!" Sam found the brake pedal and slammed it to the floor, eyes darting to the rear view mirror to make sure they wouldn't be rear-ended. He awkwardly pulled the car to the side of the road, shoved the gear into park, and sagged forward, catching his breath.

After a moment, he looked over his shoulder at his unconscious brother.

"You idiot," he muttered, reaching for Dean's chin, and tilting his pale face away from the window. "You're a mess, man."

Sliding back across the seat to the passenger door, he opened it and climbed out stiffly. His legs throbbed; he dreaded looking at the bruises, knowing they would be deep, dark reminders of the beating he'd suffered at Jeremy's hand.

With a slight limp that he felt was more in his head than out of necessity, he moved around the back of the car to the driver's side, then carefully opened the door, an arm out to catch Dean as he slumped loosely into the gap of air. Sam bent, taking his brother's weight against his chest, and tried to ease him over without putting too much pressure on Dean's wounded back.

Dean's head fell back against his shoulder. As he scooted his brother's solid body across the seat, Sam saw Dean's T-shirt begin to hitch up, exposing first his belly, then his chest.

"Oh, my God," Sam breathed as the rucked up shirt revealed that Sam wasn't the only one keeping bruises a secret.

Sliding into the car behind the wheel and moving Dean over until his forehead rested against the passenger window, Sam reached for Dean's shirt, pulling it the rest of the way up and exposing a circular pattern of bruising that looked sickeningly like the blast from a shotgun.

"What the _hell_, man?" Sam whispered. "What happened to you?"

Dean didn't respond. His breathing was steady, regular, but he was completely pliant, sagging against the door. Sam knew his brother was exhausted from staying up for so many days to avoid confrontation with Jeremy after inadvertently taking the dream root. He knew his body was hurting, especially after the rock salt landmine incident. Dean might not know when to say _when_, but the human body could only take so much. Sam pulled Dean's T-shirt back down, then shifted the car into drive.

"We've got some explaining to do," Sam said, checking over his shoulder for traffic, then pulling out onto the road.

He stopped at the first motel with a Vacancy sign spitting neon light into the early morning air and found a room with two queen-sized beds. He also grabbed extra towels and a take-out menu from the clerk.

By the time he'd unloaded the car, stacked the grenade boxes in the room and dropped their clothes duffels on their respective beds, he was exhausted. But he still had Dean in the car, slumped against the door, oblivious to everything by the sweet peace of darkness.

Easing the door open, Sam narrowed his eyes against the glaring light of the early sun. He caught Dean before his brother could tumble out, then crouched next to him so that he could fling an arm over his shoulder. His brother was way too heavy to be carried, but Sam saw little choice. Gripping Dean's wrist in one hand, and his belt loops in the other, Sam kicked the car door shut and dragged him into the motel room, dumping him rather unceremoniously on the bed, face-down.

Panting a bit with his exertions, Sam gathered the supplies he'd need to clean Dean's wounds, then set about his task. He worked the sleeves of Dean's jacket off of his brother's arms, then peeled it away from his bloody back. The flannel shirt was in tatters, as was the white T-shirt beneath it. Sam decided he'd just cut them off and worry about the ramifications later.

Sam pulled out Dean's Bowie, carefully sliding the sharp blade beneath the clothe, pulling upwards and slicing the clothing apart. Dean didn't make a sound. He was so still, in fact, that Sam paused every few minutes to make sure he was breathing. When the shirts were off, Sam took a moment to take in the sight of the wounds on his brother's back—wounds he'd absorbed so that Sam wouldn't have to.

It wasn't as bad as he'd feared, but it wasn't good, either. Six or seven large red spots—about the size of half-dollars—would soon turn into purplish bruises, and in the center of those spots, a gouge of skin was missing, blood still seeping from several holes. Sam winced a bit when he saw two wounds still had bits of salt embedded in the flesh.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to scream out the raw, frustrated anger that was hovering just below the surface of his control since the moment Dean had uttered the two words that broke his heart: _one year_. In the space of time between that moment and this, he'd been walking around with emotions like shattered glass slipping and slicing around inside of him, cutting him off from meaning, from reality, from anything that had to do with life outside of saving Dean.

"Dead inside…" Dean suddenly muttered, startling Sam into opening his eyes.

"What?" Sam asked, leaning closer. Dean's mouth was parted, his breath coming out in shallow pants, his brow furrowed, folded slightly by the weight of his head on the bedspread. "What did you say, Dean?"

"Worthless."

Sam frowned. He was obviously dreaming, and though he wanted to pull his brother from such ideas, he needed to fix his back with minimal struggle first. Shifting out of his long-sleeved shirt so that his arms were freer, Sam retrieved the heavy-duty tweezers from their first aid kit, then wet one of the extra towels with warm water and soap, and one with just water.

Carefully, he pressed the soapy rag against Dean's shoulder, pausing as his brother flinched at the touch, then stroked slowly downward, cleaning the dust and salt from the wounds. The towel was soon pink, catching the seeping blood and smeared stains from the wounds. He followed the soapy path with the clean rag until he was satisfied that he'd caught as much of the salt particles as he could.

Biting on his lip until he could taste blood, Sam carefully plucked the small chucks of salt from the wounds on Dean's left shoulder, hissing in quiet sympathy when Dean jerked, his muscles shuddering automatically from the invasive touch.

As he applied the antiseptic to the cuts, his stomach muscles tightening each time Dean's skin shivered and shook in reaction to the pain, he tried not to think about Roosevelt Asylum… about having to do this to Dean's chest. About inflicting the damage in the first place.

He was cursed, he knew. Cursed to witness the person he loved most in the world suffer because of him.

"Couldn't protect his family…"

Sam continued to chew on his lip while Dean's muttering increased. He applied ointment and gauze patches while Dean railed.

"Wasn't there for Sam…"

_Who was Dean talking about_?

Finishing with the wounds on his back, Sam gingerly rolled Dean over to get a better look at the bruises on his chest. Dean frowned in his sleep, his legs and hands twitching with unconscious motion. Sam flattened his lips, examining the bruises. They were deep, edged with yellow, and centered on his sternum as if he'd been shot in the heart.

Sam tilted his head. _Shot with what?_

"Can't escape," Dean muttered, his head rolling loosely on the pillow, the line between his brows deepening. "Can't escape."

Watching his brother caught in the dream, the nightmare, suddenly felt intrusive, wrong. Sam stood, backing away from the bed, unable to take his eyes from Dean's form. Remembering what it had been like before to watch Dean laying wounded and helpless, unable to stop the pain or the torture.

Rubbing his fingers over his face, Sam dug the heels of his hands into his burning eyes, trying to erase the memory of too many close calls, too many just made its, too many what ifs.

"Sam?"

He jumped at the coherent sound of his name. Dropping his hands he looked up, realizing he'd backed across the entire room and was leaning against the wall next to the air conditioning unit, as far from Dean's bed as he could get.

"Hey."

Dean blinked groggily, his movements sluggish, his expression confused. "Where the hell are we?"

"Motel."

"When… how…" Dean tried to roll to his side, attempted to push himself up to his elbow, but stopped with a hiss of pain. "Holy shit," he groaned, easing back onto the bed. "Kill me now…"

"You're not going anywhere for awhile," Sam said, still not moving away from the wall. "You passed out. Driving the Impala."

"What!" Dean's face went pale.

"She's okay. I stopped her."

"Thank God," Dean sighed, relaxing back into the bed. He closed his eyes for a moment. "I passed out?"

"There's only so much even you can take, man."

Sam watched Dean unconsciously rub at the bruises on his chest, then realize he was shirtless. "Where the hell—"

"I had to clean up your back," Sam said, moving a bit closer to the bed. "You had some rock salt bruises there. But that…" Sam nodded at the cluster of bruises over Dean's sternum. "That wasn't from rock salt."

Dean swallowed, turning his face toward the curtained windows, a splice of sunlight shimmering through the seam and drawing innocent lines across his features.

"No," he finally replied.

"Want to talk about it?" Sam asked, pushing the duffel from the foot of the bed and sitting down near his brother's feet.

"No."

"Dean," Sam said, looking down. He pulled up the leg of his leans, exposing the angry welts and bruises put there by Jeremy's bat. "I think we need to talk about it."

www

**Brookville, PA**

One of the reasons she enjoyed riding her Indian motorcycle in the Northeast part of the U.S. was the fact that autumn came early and stayed late. It was the best time, she felt, to tear across the blacktop, let the rush of the wind minimize problems that seemed insurmountable when she was still. It was then that she didn't mind no longer having a home, a family, a touchstone. It was then that she was satisfied with just _being_.

Virgil had been the one to first point out the change to her. A casual mention of the days getting hotter, not cooler, and she realized they were finally in the right place. They had finally found his hide-out. Fifteen years ago, Pennsylvania had suffered a heat wave the likes of which no meteorologist had ever seen.

The heat was dry, almost desert-like. More than an Indian Summer. It was almost a climate shift. Farmers went broke watering dormant fields in hopes of saving the soil for planting; the coal industry was impacted as the winter chill wasn't felt. And then, it all stopped. Six people died, winter returned, and people forgot.

But she knew that it was happening again. It had just started. There would be four more, she knew, and it would just get hotter until he was satisfied. And she planned on staying until she found him. And used him.

Her silver rings clinked against the metal tail-gait where she sat staring across the hotel parking lot. Sweat ran unchecked down the sides of her face and caused the curls of hair that escaped her knot to stick to her neck. Her T-shirt was damp along the line of her spine and pockets of sweat gathered beneath her bra in uncomfortable curves. She felt the skin on the back of her arms tighten as the sun's intensity stroked the tender skin, and she sighed, letting the warmth ease stress-tight muscles.

"There you are."

At the sound, Brenna lifted her head, her fingers tapping an idle tempo on her denim-clad thigh. Virgil had the voice of a rock star after a bender: honey and whiskey poured over gravel.

"I wasn't hiding."

Virgil lifted an eyebrow, the wiry brown hairs disappearing beneath the bill of his red baseball cap he was never without. It covered the premature thinning spot of hair at the back of his head. His bright blue eyes snapped at her.

"You didn't say you were leaving the room," he returned.

Brenna pressed her lips close. "Yeah, I know."

The former paramedic had been her travel companion, guardian, and conscience since her only family had died and her home had burned to the ground. Virgil had followed her without question, without hesitation, and with that same damn hopeful look in his eyes since the day she'd driven away from the only safety she'd ever known.

Away from _him_.

"Just trying to watch out for you, Brenna," Virgil said quietly.

"Yeah," she sighed, feeling the familiar weight of guilt press down. "I know."

Virgil shifted his hat back on his head, squinting off into the distance. "Got a weird call just now."

"Yeah?" Brenna felt her ears perk up.

"For a Patti Smith."

"What did he say?"

Virgil cocked a brow at her, and Brenna felt her chest tighten. "You _did_ talk to him, right?"

"Why should I? I don't know a Patti Smith."

Brenna smacked his shoulder, hard. "You idiot. That's me!"

"Why're you using alias'? Of female rock stars no less," Virgil returned. "We've been traveling together for months now and you've always used your name. Were _proud_ to use your name."

Brenna blew her bangs from her sweaty forehead. "It's got nothing to do with that. This guy is a hunter, Virge."

"And the fake name?"

"A trick I picked up from… a friend." She shifted her eyes to the side.

Virgil was silent for a moment. "This friend have a thing for black Chevys?"

Brenna lifted her shoulder, hopping from the tailgate and squinting up at Virgil. "So, what did he say?"

"I'm going with you."

"We can discuss that later. Tell me what he said."

Virgil reached out and gripped her bicep, pulling her close enough that her breasts pressed against his chest. She frowned at a button on his shirt, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"This quest, or whatever, of yours has never been dangerous before," Virgil said, his voice sending odd shivers down her spine. "But it's getting that way now. I'm going to keep an eye on you."

"You don't have to," she said, pushing roughly away from his chest. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, well," Virgil tipped his head to the side. "I made a promise."

"You made that promise to a ghost," she replied, dismayed at the bitter regret that seeped around every word.

"He's still out there somewhere," Virgil replied. "You know that better than anyone."

Brenna sighed, closing her eyes and hoping she didn't see memories. She knew he was still out there. She had been inside of him as surely as he'd been inside of her. She had seen things he'd never let anyone see, and she'd buried them deep, drawing them out only when she felt most alone. She would know if he'd died, if he'd left her, if he'd denied her the promise of _someday_.

"Fine. You can come with me. Not like I've been able to shake you so far," Brenna grumbled, a wiry half-grin cresting her mouth.

Virgil nodded, then pulled out a piece of paper from the motel stationary. "Said to meet him at some truck stop diner place outside of Toby."

"Toby it is," Brenna started toward her bike. "See you there, Sinatra."

Virgil glared at her, then turned and opened his driver's side door. He swung up into the cab, twisted the keys in the ignition and nodded at her. Brenna swung a leg over her bike, kicked started the motor, then turned it in a tight circle, heading for the highway.

The road was open before her, and she was, for all intents and purposes, free. But she felt his eyes on her the whole way.

www

**Buffalo, NY**

The conversation called for beer, and lots of it.

Dean had insisted, and Sam had ordered food and picked up drinks while Dean cleaned up. It was a slow process; the simple act of breathing was labor-intensive and wreaked havoc on the task of asking his limbs to move. After a few attempts to balance under the spray of water and spare his wounded body the beating, Dean ended up sitting on the edge of the tub, naked, the porcelain of the top cool against his backside, the hot water from the faucet sluicing over his feet and calves.

Bending carefully, feeling his damaged skin stretch with reluctance, Dean soaked a rag with hot water, scrubbed it across the bar of white soap, then stroked a quick pattern of suds down his neck, across his bruised chest, and over his scarred belly. Scooping water in the palm of his hand, he rinsed the film of soap from his body, avoiding his bandaged back and sighing as the water coated his aching muscles. He let the heat and the liquid offer him the solace he'd once sought under the sound-canceling rhythm of the shower.

Sam returned with beer just as Dean exited the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his waist. They simply looked at each other a moment, exhaustion like thick cobwebs hanging between them. Silently, Sam took his turn in the shower while Dean dressed. He pulled on socks, boxers, and jeans, but left the top buttons open, and decided against the T-shirt. It would hurt too much to pull over his head.

He heard the shower shut off as he used his ring to pop the cap off of his first bottle of beer. The taste of barley and hops hit the back of his tongue and slid like liquid gold down his throat pulling a sigh of satisfaction from deep in his belly. He was about to swallow more when a knock at the door startled him.

"Large pizza for, uh… Steve Perry?"

Dean grinned. "That's me."

"Hey, dude," the fresh-faced delivery boy said, light dawning in his eyes. "You any relation to that singer guy?"

Dean took the pizza. "He's my cousin," he replied, then closed the door. "Sam! Grub!"

"Comin'," Sam called from the bathroom, emerging almost fully-clothed, his large bare feet padding across the carpet as he made a bee-line for the pepperoni, his wet hair dripping on his T-shirt-clad shoulders. "God, I am starving."

"We're lucky they deliver at…" Dean craned his neck to look at the clock. "11:00 in the morning."

Sam flopped down on the edge of the bed, reaching for another slice. "You wanna go first?"

Dean took another swallow of beer, sinking slowly onto the bed and tucking one foot under the opposite leg. "I don't wanna _go_ at all."

Sam finished his second piece, then looked over at Dean. "Fine. I'll go."

He took a breath, wiping his fingers across his greasy lips. The room was quiet save for the hum of the air unit and a dog barking from somewhere outside. Dean waited, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Sam grabbed a beer, held it out to Dean to open, then took it back and swallowed a gulp before sitting at the chair opposite Dean.

"I killed Jeremy."

Dean nodded. "I know that already."

Sam shook his head. "No… no you don't." He stood up and ran his hand through his wet hair. Dean followed the motion, eyes catching on the ragged marks on Sam's wrists.

"Dude!" He sat forward. "What happened to your wrists?"

Sam looked at his arm, frowning. "He staked me out—tied me up to these wooden spikes. And he worked me over with a bat. On the legs."

"Son of a…"

"I thought he was gonna kill me, man. I really did. I screamed, I called out for you—I mean, we were in _your_ dream… I figured you couldn't be far."

"Sam…"

"But, it turned out that I didn't need you," Sam said, dropping his arm and turning to face Dean. He opened his mouth, closed it quickly, then took a quick drink. "I remembered that I'd taken the dream root, too… that I could take control. So, I summoned his Dad… and while he was distracted, I grabbed the bat."

Dean blinked. "You… hit him?"

Sam nodded.

"Wow."

"I kept hitting him until he didn't move. Until we woke up in the car."

Dean was quiet. He felt Sam waiting for him to say something—_anything_—but he wasn't sure what the right thing to say would be. _Thank you? I'm sorry? You did good? That's too bad?_

"I think you saved me, Sam," he rasped, surprising himself with his word choice.

"What?" Sam sat down.

Dean looked down at the bruising on his chest, then rested his eyes on the middle distance, seeing once again the room, the eerie mirror-image of the back of his own head, the liquid black eyes above a cocky smile so familiar it made him sweat.

"You woke us up, and… if you hadn't…" He shook his head helplessly. "When we got split up, I, uh… I ended up back in the motel room." He rolled his bottom lip against his teeth. "I thought it was Jeremy there, but… it was me."

Sam's brows pulled close. "I'm not following you."

"I was…" he huffed out a helpless laugh. "I was talking to myself. The _real_ me."

"_You_ are the real you," Sam argued.

"Yeah, but," Dean pushed himself up with a grunt of pain, moving to stand in front of the curtained window, his back toward Sam. "This me was saying stuff… stuff I would never say out loud. Stuff about me… about Dad…"

"Stuff like… how you feel dead inside?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Dean looked at him over his shoulder, his skin tight with embarrassed surprise. "How'd you know that?"

"You were dreaming when we first got here."

Closing his eyes quickly, Dean shook his head, then looked back through the narrow slit between the curtains. "Yeah, stuff like that. He… _I_… pushed me. Pushed me, and taunted me and pulled out this… anger I had inside about Dad. About this deal. About… about hell."

"Where did the bruises come from, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice carefully level.

"Me. Kinda. I, uh… shot myself—the other me. Blasted right through me. Blood everywhere. I just had to stop it… I couldn't take it anymore."

Dean looked down. He'd heard Sam's sharp intake of breath and wasn't able to face him as he confessed the next part. "He—I, the other me—sat up, though. Face all splattered with blood. Chest mangled. He sat up and his eyes, Sam… his eyes were black."

Dean turned and looked at his brother. "_My_ eyes were black. Demon black. I'm gonna die, Sam. And that's what I'm gonna become."

"No," Sam shook his head.

"We may as well face it, man."

"No!" Sam shouted, throwing his half-finished beer into the small plastic trash can, amber-colored liquid splashing up onto the paisley-patterned wallpaper. "You're _not_ going to become a demon. You're not going to Hell."

"Sam, we—"

"Shut up!" Sam stepped forward, stopping only when he was inches away from Dean. He pointed at the bruises on Dean's chest. "You. Are. Not. Going. To. Hell."

Dean felt his jaw twitch as tears burned the backs of his eyes. He wanted to believe. He wanted to trust. He silently stared up at his brother, the bottle of beer the only solid thing in his grasp at the moment.

"That's why we're here," Sam reminded him, short of breath as emotions raged through him. "We got Dad's stuff here, Dean. We'll go through it… we'll find something…"

Dean swallowed, recognizing the moment for what it was. Recognizing that this search was more about Sam's hope than his own salvation. And that was okay. Because he was nothing without Sam, and his brother was nothing without hope.

"Okay, man. But, if we don't—"

"Don't say that!" Sam interjected, voice trembling.

"Sam!" Dean reached out, grabbing his brother's shirt and shaking him. "Listen to me! If we don't find anything in these boxes, it doesn't mean we have to give up, okay? I am in this. I'm in this with you."

Sam blinked and Dean felt his heart kick against his ribs as tears swam in his little brother's eyes.

"You promise?" Sam said, sounding all of two.

"'Course I promise." Dean pushed Sam playfully away. "Can I have some of that pizza now?"

Sam turned and grabbed a slice, shoving it toward Dean while he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. They decided to leave the pictures until later. With a silent nod, they agreed that seeing their family through John's eyes was more than they could handle at the moment.

Sam grabbed the box marked _Weapons_ while Dean began to file through the one marked _Spells_.

"You know what I think this is?" Dean said after a moment. "It's stuff he never got around to adding to his journal."

Sam nodded. "Yeah—he's got lists here. Lists of names of weapons… who made them, what they do… I think he was looking for the Colt."

"Here is a whole stack of information on witches, man. Coulda used this a time or two," Dean flipped through napkins and scraps of paper and torn out sections of menus. "He's got maps drawn here to covens and… damn, man, this looks like actual spells. Like the real black magic shit."

"Why wouldn't he put that in the journal?" Sam lifted his head, eyes puzzled.

Dean shrugged. "Some of it's not in his handwriting," he said. "Maybe he wasn't sure of the spells' powers or something."

They continued to look in silence until Sam whistled. "Dean… Dad knew about Ruby's knife."

"What?" Dean brought his head up sharply.

"Well, he knew about the knife she has. Here, listen," Sam leaned forward, a collection of papers in one hand, the other grasping what looked like a page from a book, a section highlighted. "_…blade of silver, treated with amethyst and forged with Holy Water blessed by the Pope, this knife will dispatch both host and demon, immediately damning the demon to return from whence it came and allowing the hosts' soul to escape to the heavenly plane."_

"Well, that's nice of it," Dean muttered. "So, it was there the whole time?"

"Looks like—wonder what made him decide to go after the Colt and not the knife?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe because a human protected the Colt and a demon protected the knife. He probably figured he'd have to have the Colt in order to get the knife in the first place."

"Dad would freak if he knew we were working with Ruby," Sam said quietly.

"Hey," Dean snapped, eyebrows arched in inverted V's. "_We're_ not working with her. You're working with her. I'm just not killing her."

Sam rolled his eyes, looking back at the list of weapons. Dean tossed the pages of spells back into the box and rolled his neck tiredly. He wasn't getting anywhere and his body was so weary it was practically weeping.

"I'm cooked, man," he finally admitted. "I'm just gonna rest for a little bit; check into more later."

"'kay."

"What about you?" Dean yanked down the covers from his bed, looking at Sam.

"Me?"

"You gotta be as beat as me," Dean said.

"Yeah, I'll rest here in a little bit. Just wanna read a little more."

Shaking his head at his brother's unswayable focus, Dean shimmied out of his jeans, then slid between the cool sheets, burying his face in his pillow. His back thrummed with a familiar tempo of pain, aching and stinging, but his chest felt strangely better. He forced himself to breathe slowly and hoped that this time when he closed his eyes, he wouldn't see himself staring back, eyes black as night, smile knowing and scared.

At first he was aware only that nothing surrounded him. He was calm, at peace, floating. Being aware that he was dreaming was something he'd always dreaded. He so rarely felt rested as he watched the subconscious story unfold, knowing that logic did not hold sway in dreams. It was a relief, therefore, when the next sensation he was conscious of was the silken dance of skin sliding across his, lips pressed to the pulse at his throat, perfumed hair nestled near his mouth.

He gladly filled his arms with woman, not knowing or caring if she had a face, a presence. It only mattered that she was here, she was holding him, and she asked for nothing he wasn't willing to give. Memories of faces past swam up, some images with names, and many without. The touch was familiar, the rhythm wanted, the sighs satisfied and he wanted only to stay, safe and whole in her embrace.

When he opened his eyes once more, he heard Sam snoring softly in the bed next to him. He rolled over to his back, wincing as his sensitive skin came in protesting contact with the sheets. He was surprised to find it dark behind the curtains. He'd slept the entire day. Sam lay sprawled on his back, long legs tangled in his sheets, one arm flopping off the edge of the bed, mouth hanging open in complete relaxation. Dean suppressed a chuckle.

He rolled to his elbow, pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He was starving, and hoped Too Tall Winchester hadn't eaten the last of the pizza. Easing to his feet, Dean shuffled across the stuffy room, light from the digital clock and Sam's laptop his only guides, and found the pizza box. He flipped it open and smiled with relief to see several pieces left. Popping open another beer, he grabbed a slice and sat down in front of Sam's computer.

It was only then that he realized his chest no longer hurt. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he glanced down, his mouth falling open in surprise.

The bruises had faded to almost nothing.

He straightened his shoulders quickly to look once more and was harshly reminded that the wounds on his back hadn't been caused by a dream gun.

"Well, I'll be damned," he whispered.

Standing, he went to the bathroom and turned on the light, double checking to make sure. The deep purple that had clustered around his sternum was nothing but faded green and yellow, leaving only his protection tattoo and old scars to stand out in the harsh light. Satisfied, he left the bathroom light on and moved over to Sam's sleeping form. No bruises or welts were visible on his legs, and his raw wrists were healed.

_Son of a bitch. I guess confession is good for more than the soul,_ he mused.

Peering closer, he saw a scrap of paper clutched in Sam's left hand, the one not hanging off of the bed. He leaned over and carefully plucked it from his brother's fingers. Sam smacked his lips together sleepily, mumbling incoherently, then rolled over to his side, narrowly missing clocking Dean across the ear in the process.

Retreating back to the safety of the table and laptop, Dean examined the paper. It was another page torn from a book, lines drawn beneath the words to emphasize importance. He frowned at the name: Kestrel dagger. It plucked something deep in his memory, something he felt he'd dealt with once before, but couldn't quite place.

Sam's screen saver rotated and caught Dean's eye. Running his finger over the touch pad, Dean brought up the last screen Sam had been looking at. It was a web site with information on the dagger. Dean skimmed the article quickly until his gaze was snagged by the words_ exchange of souls_.

"What the…"

Reading on, he found that the Kestrel Dagger had been forged by monks in early 15th century. It was named for the bird of prey that hovers in the air, looking for their kill. The blade was forged from pyrite and silver, the edge made from diamonds, and the hilt embedded with amethyst crystals. Inscribed on the blade was the Latin phrase _Ex is vita ut tunc_.

"From this life to the next," Dean whispered.

"Dean?"

He jumped at the sudden sound of Sam's voice. "Dude, yawn or something."

"Sorry," Sam yawned. "Time is it?"

"Uhh…" Dean looked at the clock on the computer. "Five in the morning."

"What?!"

"Hey, I figure sixteen hours of sleep is decent."

"What are you looking at?" Sam sat up in the bed and hitched his way back to lean against the headboard.

"How do your legs feel?" Dean asked instead of answering him.

"Huh?"

Dean rotated so that his brother could see him in the light from the bathroom. "'Cause my chest feels kinda awesome."

Sam gaped at him, then looked down at his legs. "What… how…"

Dean shrugged. "Dream wounds… maybe they were more… y'know in our heads than anything."

"So… we got rid of them by… talking about them?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Hey, Dude, you're always the one saying that we don't talk enough. Maybe there's something to this sharing, caring shit."

Sam laughed. "Maybe."

"You remember if Bobby had any marks on him? After, y'know… fighting with his wife?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't remember."

"I think I'm gonna call him. Check in."

"I'd wait until a little later, if I were you," Sam pointed out, rubbing his eyes. "Not sure if Bobby's all that keen on getting up before dawn."

"Good point. I'm just reading about this diamond dagger you were looking up," Dean pointed to the computer screen. "What's going on in that head of yours, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged. "I was just… well, I was thinking that there might be something to this whole soul exchange bit."

"What, put my soul into a different body?" Dean pulled his head back in disgust.

"Or… give Hell another soul…"

"What?!" Dean stood quickly. "That's crazy."

"Not just _any_ soul, man," Sam reassured, standing with his hands up and out, placating Dean with the motion of his fingers. "A demon's."

"Wait… what?" Dean cocked his head to the side. "You're assuming they _have_ a soul."

"Okay, so maybe I'm making a loose interpretation of the word _soul_. It's essentially your essence. The thing that makes you _you_, right? The black smoke of the demon… it's their… well, their soul."

"Pretty thin, Sammy," Dean shook his head. "I think you're reaching for rainbows and unicorns here."

"The dagger doesn't just work one way, Dean," Sam explained. "It's controlled by the will, or the power, or whatever, of the person who owns it. And you have to full-on _own_ it. Either kill the person who has it now, or, purchase it outright."

Dean twisted his hands in the air, motioning Sam to continue, his eyes dubious. "Okay…"

"Anyway, say we bought the dagger, right? Okay, so _we_ own it, and all we would have to do is find a demon, stab it, and exchange your soul for theirs when the Hell Hounds come."

"Oh," Dean pressed his lips together. "Well. If _that's _all…"

"Hey, I didn't say it was perfect—I hadn't really gotten into much reading about it before I took a nap."

Dean took a bite of his cold pizza. "It's a nice idea, Sam," he said around his mouthful, "but it's not gonna work. I mean, were totally ignoring that a demon possesses _people_. We just gonna kill some innocent person? Besides. We don't even know where this dagger is."

"Yeah, I know," Sam sighed. "But it was something."

Dean nodded, grabbing another piece of pizza, then moved over to sit on his bed. "Wonder what's on TV at five a.m.?"

"That's it?" Sam asked. "Thanks for the thought, I'm gonna watch TV?"

"You got any better ideas?"

"Have you finished looking through the _Spells _box yet?"

"No."

"You gonna?"

Dean sighed, tossing his pizza on the nightstand. "Fine!"

Sam got up, pulled on his jeans and moved toward the computer as Dean grabbed the box marked _Spells_ and set it up on the bed. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed _Campbell_ and set it next to _Spells_.

Unable to handle the quiet of the room, Dean turned on the clock radio between their beds, scrolling the dial until he found WDRF, 97 Rock and listened to the early morning DJ announce it time for an _Immigrant Song._

Switching on the lamp between their beds, Dean settled in to look through the boxes, listening to Zeppelin's familiar wail war with the fast tapping of keys on Sam's laptop. There wasn't much else in the box marked _Spells_. Several notes about the differences between witches and wizards, lists of hex bag contents, and a few more spells written in Latin that Dean didn't have the energy to translate. He pulled the remaining pieces of paper from the box with plans to add it to their journal, and turned his attention to the pictures.

Zeppelin slipped away and was replaced by Boston as Dean fell into the fog of his childhood.

_"You'll forget about me after I've been gone, and I'll just take what I can find, I don't want no more… It's just outside your front door…_

There were several pictures of Mary, pregnant. Always smiling at the camera, one hand on her belly. There was a picture of a nursery the he knew wasn't Sam's. Sam's nursery would be forever ingrained in his memory. This was his, he realized. This was where they planned for him.

He chuckled at the first few pictures of himself as a baby. He was a funny-looking kid. He started to rifle through the photos even faster as his past was revealed through more shots of him as a boy sitting on John's shoulders, curled in Mary's lap with a book, showing a bandaged finger to the camera, his first missing tooth. The pressure in his chest returned ten-fold, filling his body with longing and searching vainly for a release.

It took him a moment to realize Sam had stopped tapping the keys. He looked up. Sam was watching him with an expression of dread and wonder.

"What?" He asked, guarded.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"'Cause you… you kinda whimpered."

Dean straightened up. "I did not."

"That's what it sounded like," Sam lifted his hands. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," Dean muttered, closing the lid. "There's nothing here to help out with the deal, Sam."

"Well… I may not have the deal breaker… but I do have something."

Dean took a swig of his beer, pushing back from the boxes and gingerly resting his bruised back against the headboard once more. "Lay it on me."

"I was doing some searching for the Kestrel dagger—y'know, just in case—and I came across something weird."

"Our kind of weird?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "About fifteen years ago, six people were murdered. They were always in pairs, they were always connected somehow—mother and daughter, husband and wife, that kind of thing. One would be sliced up, but the other would bleed out."

"So, wait, the one that was cut up didn't bleed out?"

"Nope—but they died anyway from unknown causes." Sam lifted a brow, his expression leading Dean to believe he didn't buy the explanations offered for the deaths.

"Weird."

"Like I said," Sam nodded, sitting back.

"So, what, you think this dagger doohickey has something to do with those deaths?" Dean tipped his head back against the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

"Well, I didn't at first, but then," Sam turned the computer around to face his brother. "I saw that it's happening again. Same place. Same pattern."

"Huh," Dean leaned forward, interest piqued. "A pattern?"

"A pattern. And if I learned anything from that damned yellow eyed bastard, it's that evil follows patterns."

"Still don't follow how the knife's involved."

Sam chewed on his lip.

"Sam?"

Boston faded and Dean tuned out the commercials as he focused on his brother's anxious face.

"Spill it," he ordered.

"Well, I don't have any proof," Sam hedged. "But… I think the owner of the knife is killing these people. That he uses their… souls for something."

"For what?"

Sam tipped his hands up in question. "You got me."

Bad Company slipped into the silence as the brothers regarded each other.

"You think this hunch of yours is enough to follow?" Dean asked softly.

Sam stared at him, his eyes heavy with a nameless emotion. Dean felt the weight his brother shouldered and he loathed the fact that he was the cause.

"_Here I am, a wayward man, following the light to a distant land. Come tomorrow, without yesterday… fade away…"_

"Yeah," Sam said finally. "I do."

Dean sat for another moment, thinking. Sacrifice was a hell of a thing. It was both selfish and selfless. In a strange way, it provides both relief and terror. He had done the only thing he could do, made the only choice that made sense to him when drowning in the hollow of his grief. He had saved Sam. And in the process, he had cursed his brother to eventually feeling that same inconceivable loss, the ache that was deep enough, heavy enough, hard enough to stop his heart.

_You win, Sammy_.

"Where's this all happening?" Dean asked.

"Some place called Brookville, Pennsylvania. It's near an old coal mining town."

"Back to Pennsylvania, huh?" Dean sighed, eyes straying to the boxes. "Probably shouldn't have left in the first place."

"Yeah, well," Sam muttered, closing his laptop. "We didn't know."

Dean rubbed his face. "When do we leave?"

www

**Brookville, PA**

"You_ so_ owe me for this," Dean muttered.

"Hey," Sam protested. "If I'm right… if this works—"

"If this works, I think I might be convinced there is a God." Dean snapped, wiping sweat from his brow. "This is ridiculous, Sam. Where the hell is this guy taking us?"

"To the rail car."

"I _know_ that."

"You asked," Sam shrugged.

Dean was always extra pissy when he was hot. And a wicked wave of heat had slapped them with vengeance the minute they crossed the border into Pennsylvania.

"We were just here two days ago," Dean complained. "It wasn't this hot then."

"It was warmer than Buffalo," Sam offered. But, Dean was right. It felt like the middle of an Arizona summer. Not Pennsylvania in Autumn. "He's turning again."

"I can see that, Sam."

"Sorry!"

Their arrival in Brookville had not gone as planned. After changing into suits in a service station outside of town—prompting Dean to muse about the convenience of phone booths for Superman—they drove directly to the police station and spoke with Sgt. Guy Ross, who was more than happy to be of service to the FBI, but didn't have much to give them beyond the autopsy report.

He suggested they talk to the coroner, an Adam Carter. Who, unfortunately wouldn't be back until tomorrow. He was in Toby on a job.

"Old man died on a passenger train. Train can't exactly go until the body's been processed," Ross had said.

"Right," Sam had replied. "We'll just check into the motel and come back tomorrow."

"Oh, well, that's gonna be tough," Ross had commented.

"Why's that?" Dean had asked, warily.

"Ain't been a motel in these parts for about ten years now. You could go to the Milton, but it's probably full up," Ross had said.

"Why's that?" Sam had asked.

"Oh, there's a train show in town. Celebrating the history of the coal mines."

Sam felt himself shrink under the heated glare Dean had shot at him. Ross had offered to put them up in the old rail car that had been converted to a guest house.

"No internet out there, though. Cell phone's kinda spotty, I'm afraid."

Dean's forced, "Swell. Sounds perfect," almost broke mid-air with brittle reluctance.

They were soon following an Officer Calhoun away from Brookville's downtown to the rail car, Dean's glowering displeasure heating up the inside of the car as much as the unseasonable heat.

"How was I supposed to know?" Sam finally burst out.

"No talking," Dean snapped. "You just… just sit there."

They stopped in front of a yellow caboose sitting in the middle of an open field, a small stream running behind it. It was braced on several cement blocks, a stack of firewood balanced against one of the walls.

"I bet we get to wash our clothes in the crick," Dean muttered.

"We've had worse," Sam reminded him.

"You see any food out here, Sam? No? Yeah, me neither. You interested in hunting for real, or what?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I. Didn't. Know."

Dean snarled quietly as they watched Officer Calhoun get out of his car and speak into his walkie-talkie. He motioned to the boys.

"Great," Dean muttered, turning of the engine. "Let's go talk to Opie."

He turned to exit the car and Sam saw him pause and flinch and pause as his back protested. Sighing with the knowledge that not only had Dean not been keen on this idea in the first place, but was walking wounded from the last idea Sam had and was grouchy from the oppressive heat, he decided to cut his brother a break.

"I mean, it, Sam. You owe me," Dean growled as he exited the car carefully.

A _small_ break.

"Let's just find out what he wants."

Officer Calhoun stepped up to them. "You boys are going to have to settle yourselves in. I have to head to Toby to help out Carter."

"Isn't that the coroner?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Calhoun removed his hat and scratched his hairline, then settled his hat back on his sweaty head. "Looks like we got another of those spooky murders."

"Spooky?" Dean asked, pulling his head back with questions in his eyes.

"Well, yeah," Calhoun shrugged. "I mean, this stuff might be what you guys at the bureau deal with all the time, but bleeding with no wounds? Witches and shit? That's always been the stuff of myth to me."

Dean folded his lips down. "Myth is what we call other people's religion," he said.

Sam looked at him in surprise. There were times his brother's depth caught him off-guard.

"Well, whatever you say," Calhoun tossed the keys to the rail car in the air. Sam reached out and caught them. "I still gotta get over there."

"If this is the same type of murder from the other day, we should go with you," Sam offered.

Calhoun shrugged. "Why not?"

"I'll go," Dean said, lightly pushing Sam toward the rail car. "You stay. Get us settled in."

"But—"

Dean mouthed, _You owe me._

Sam set his jaw, looking away with a huff of breath.

"I'll help you unload and then follow Calhoun here back out to Toby," Dean said, his eyes grinning at Sam while his mouth smirked in a queue of innocence. "That work for you, Cal?"

"Long as you hurry."

Dean popped the trunk and grabbed their duffels while Sam tucked two of the grenade boxes under his arm. Calhoun took the keys back from Sam, unlocking the door and sliding it wide. The inside was dark with the curtains pulled, and Sam noticed the distinct scent of moth balls.

"Well," Dean sighed over dramatically, "isn't this homey."

"There's a bathroom down there, and the couch folds out into a bed. There's only one bed in the back bedroom. Kitchen works, but you'll have to bring food in from Brookeville," Calhoun informed them.

"You don't say?" Dean muttered, dropping the duffels on the couch.

"You might want to pick up some water for the Impala, too, while you're at it," Sam suggested. "Just in case she overheats."

"Dude," Dean snapped, insult obvious in his tone. "I know how to take care of my car, okay?"

"I'm just sayin'—"

"Yeah, well," Dean grabbed his .45 from the duffel and started to tuck it into the hollow of his back, hesitated, then slid it into his inside jacket pocket. He turned toward the door. "I think you've said enough."

"Dean," Sam called. Dean turned slightly to look at him over his shoulder. "Just… be careful."

Dean nodded once, then opened the door of the Impala, calling to Calhoun over the roof. "Who got it this time, man?"

Calhoun shrugged. "Not really sure. A man and woman. Carter said they could be lovers, relatives, or just traveling together. Hard to tell until we get there."

Dean nodded, slipping behind the wheel. Sam looked at him through the windshield and thought he caught a quick glimmer of regret at leaving him behind before he turned to tuck his arm across the seat and back out of the barren lot surrounding the rail car. Without a backward glance, Dean followed Calhoun back out onto the road.

It took everything in Sam not to run after him.

* * *

a/n: I know it was a bit long, but I actually cut off a good portion from my outline to save for chapter two. If you've gotten this far, I hope you stick with it.

My good friend Tara, LovinJackson/LovinDean, made a pretty kick-ass vid for this story to the song _Halos_ by Under the Flood. Here is the link if you'd like to check it out (you'll have to remove the spaces to thwart ff[dot]net): http:// www. youtube. com/ watch ? v=1P3uAaUpnMk

And if you're interested, I have two more stories planned that are "brother only" stories. One has pirates (yes, pirates), and one is a western. They are gifts to two very special people in this fandom and I'm excited to write them.

Playlist:

_Rock'n Roll Ain't Noise Pollution_ by AC/DC

_Thunderstruck_ by AC/DC

_Immigrant Song_ by Led Zeppelin

_Long Time_ by Boston

_Fade Away_ by Bad Company

Translations:

Diadhuit = Hello, literally _God be with you_

Dia is Muire dhuit = Hello (reply), literally _God and Mary be with you_

Ar dheis De go raibh a anam = _May he rest in peace_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1. _**Please note**_**: from this point on in the story, there are some scenes that may be considered potentially "racy" as well as some harsher language and scenes. I am keeping the rating at "T" or "PG-13," but ask that you keep this in mind as you read.**

**a/n**: As this will most likely be the last chapter posted prior to the Christmas Holiday, I wanted to wish all of you a Merry Christmas—or the equivalent for the holiday you celebrate—and thank you most sincerely for your support, your encouragement, and your time throughout this past year. I write these stories for myself, yes, but I also search for your thoughts and wait for your feedback with bated breath, smiling again once I've seen your reviews.

Thank you for always giving me something to smile about.

Many thanks and sincere appreciation to my beta, **Kelly**. She is an angel. **Terry**, you are my light on so many different levels. Thank you for jerking a knot in my tail when needed, the virtual smack when necessary, and the praise that I know I don't deserve. **Sojourner**, your friendship has taught me so much about myself, and I love you for it. Thanks for the read, girls.

With that, I give you the 2nd chapter of a story that I've been _dying_ to tell ya'll.

* * *

_I have heard the thunder rolling across the sky. I have crossed the waters that keep them miles apart. Now I know the time has come to make a brand new start…_

_--Evil Wind, Bad Company_

www

On some level, living as a human contradiction kept him amused.

It offered him the chance to change his mind at will, make excuses for rowdy behavior, justify time spent in somewhat nefarious activities. But, as Dean glanced up at his rear-view mirror and watched his brother's face recede in the background, he felt a quake in his chest on the verge of shimmying out through his lips as a whimper.

He turned on the radio, not caring that the only sound filling the rapidly cooling interior of the Impala was the drone of a commercial. He just needed some other sound around him beside the harsh guffaw of his own conscience. He followed Calhoun's police cruiser back past the police station and down a two-lane highway, absentmindedly worrying his lower lip in thought.

His confession to Sam had taken on a sour taste in the back of his mouth as time tripped on. He'd hoped that he'd feel some relief sharing the burden of his fear. But soon after the words escaped—seemingly of their own free will—they turned to lead and sat at the base of his heart like weights intent on drowning him in guilt and remorse.

Sam's ever-watchful eyes had shimmered with relief; his brother's entire being had relaxed the moment Dean had said, "I don't want to go to Hell."

And in that moment, tension tied a slip knot around his chest, quietly slipping down the length of the mental rope he was sure he'd hang himself from before the year was up. Leaving Sam—even for a moment—felt like falling overboard in the middle of the ocean. But at the same time, he needed to swim or risk being suffocated by the combination of his fear and his brother's worry.

Dean sat forward gingerly, his elbows resting on the edge of his steering wheel as he kept the still-tender flesh of his back from meeting the unyielding bench seat. Calhoun passed a truck stop and Dean glanced to the side, Sam's uncharacteristic warning about the Impala pressing on his memory. Shaking his head to clear it, he continued on, turning the volume of the radio up when Pearl Jam's _Black _beat back the silence.

_Anything, man,_ he groaned internally. _Anything but what I'm hearing…_

_You're gonna die, Dean… and this is what you're going to become._

Dean turned the music up louder. Enough so that he felt his body shake from the inside out with the thunder of the bass.

_"Oh, and twistin' thoughts that spin round my head. I'm spinning, oh, I'm spinning. How quick the sun can drop away, and now my bitter hands cradle the broken glass of what was everything. All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything..."_

Dean's eyes caught on a gauge in the Chevy's dash. The unseasonable, oppressive heat was taking its toll on the car's refurbished engine. Frowning, Dean switched off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows. Sweat immediately gathered along his hairline and upper lip, working a path down the valley in his back as his muscles tightened.

He wanted desperately to shrug out of the black suit coat, but knew that it was essentially the only thing keeping the filter of belief between his lie and the rest of the world. As he continued to follow Calhoun into the town of Toby, he heard the unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle approaching even over the roar of Eddie Vedder's pained growl.

Watching with mild curiosity as the gray and red Indian sped past him, followed closely by a well-used, dusty red Ford F-150, Dean felt a spark of remembrance ignite in the back of his mind. His attention was pulled forward once more as Calhoun turned into a seemingly empty lot, pulled up to a stop, and turned off the sirens that Dean had almost forgotten were on. Dean followed suit, turning off the radio before shutting down the Impala.

The dirt lot was flanked by large signs declaring it for sale, all 58 acres, for the tidy sum of $175,000. Dean took this in as he scanned the surroundings carefully, his father's training as much a part of him now as the natural act of breathing. _Know your territory, know your enemy, but most importantly, know your exits._

The backside of several houses faced the lot, and Dean could see the makeshift outline of a sandlot ball diamond scratched in the earth. Grabbing his intricately-detailed, yet no-less fake FBI badge, he stepped from the car and rolled his shoulders carefully, pulling the material from the seeping wounds as best he could without drawing attention to himself.

"Game on," he whispered, heading toward the square-jawed deputy.

"Ross isn't joining us?" Dean asked as Calhoun lifted the yellow crime scene tape and held it for Dean to duck under.

Calhoun shrugged. "Someone's gotta hold down the fort, yeah?"

"Guess so," Dean replied, eyes tracking to the carefully positioned bodies. His brows pulled close and he caught his lower lip between his teeth, forcing himself to pause for a moment before commenting. "I don't think this is your crime scene, man."

Calhoun's neck actually popped as he whipped his head to the side to stare at Dean. "What?"

Dean stepped forward, indicating the specifically placed poles—no higher than the top of the victim's heads—just far enough apart that the victims could clearly see one another, but not touch.

"Any reason two random poles would be stuck in the ground in the middle of a vacant lot?"

Calhoun removed his hat and scratched his hairline. "Uh, no."

"Well, the killer obviously put them here," said a voice to their left.

Dean glanced up to see a slim man with large, thick glasses, a thin, twitchy mustache, and a navy blue wind breaker with the words Medical Examiner stitched on the right side. When the man stopped just shy of the bodies and regarded Dean and Calhoun, his nose wrinkling with obvious distaste, Dean bit the inside of his cheek.

"Just like with every other crime scene," the mousey man finished.

"Before or after he killed them?" Dean pointed out. "Those houses can't be more than 100 yards away," he continued, jerking his head to the side. "Don't you think they might've heard two people getting cut up?"

"One," the Medical Examiner corrected him. "And who knows. People hear a lot of things they don't report."

Dean lifted a brow, then stepped even closer to the bodies, his head tilted in thought. "Sounds like you speak from experience, Mr…."

"Carter. Adam Carter. And yes," Carter nodded brusquely. "I do speak from experience. Now that we've covered me, who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Carter, this is Agent Ford from the FBI. He's investigating these murders," Calhoun informed him.

Carter frowned, dropping his pack and bending down to select two latex gloves from a small box. Dean's hands began to sweat even more at the thought of having yet another layer covering him in this heat.

"FBI comes out to Toby? After two deaths?" Carter's doubt was apparent.

"Actually, we came out to Brookville," Dean said, squatting down next to the little man and cautiously regarding the bodies. He tried in vain to ignore the dull hum of gathering flies. "And it's not just been two deaths, has it?"

Carter looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"This all happened fifteen years ago, didn't it?" Dean asked. "Kind of a strange little coincidence isn't it?"

"You part of some special FBI squad or something?" Carter asked, pulling out a thermometer.

Dean's answering grin didn't meet his eyes. "You could say that."

He straightened as Carter began to focus on his job, assessing approximate time of death, removing the bodies from their bound positions against the posts, bagging the hands and feet for any residual evidence.

The bodies were tied to the posts at the wrists, a gag in the mouth of the man, the woman's chin on her chest. Dean could see slash marks along the woman's legs along the inside of her thighs, stopping just short of her groin, then continuing up her belly and along her breasts. He tore his eyes from her, swallowing the bile that rose at the sight of such targeted cruelty.

Walking around the area carefully, Dean found himself glancing to his left where Sam so often was, taking notes and nodding seriously. He spared himself an internal eye-roll and noted the lack of blood on the ground in direct contradiction to the amount of blood on the male victim.

"So, one victim, in this case the woman, is cut," Dean muttered loud enough that Carter could hear. "And the other victim—the dude—bleeds to death."

"Now I see why they sent you," Carter replied, sarcasm coating each word. "What would we have done without your astute observation?"

Dean ignored him. "Is the blood on the victim their own?"

Calhoun removed his hat in what Dean was starting to recognize as a nervous gesture. "Come again?"

"Are they actually bleeding? Or is it the blood from the one that was cut?" Dean clarified.

Carter sank back on his heels. "You're suggesting… that the killer cut the woman up, saturated the man with her blood, and then drug them both out here to stake out until we found them?"

Dean shrugged. "Is that any more unbelievable than bleeding from no apparent wounds?"

Carter looked up at Calhoun. "Did you give him the autopsy report?"

"I gave it to his partner."

"Why isn't your partner here, then?" Carter asked Dean.

"None of your damn business, that's why," Dean snapped. "What am I missing?"

"Well, for one, Mr. F.B. I. Agent," Carter drawled. "The bloody victim's cause of death is exsanguination. As in bleeding to death."

"I know what it means," Dean growled. "What about the other one?"

At that, Carter sighed, looking at the woman's slumped form. "Shock. Or so it seems. There's no indication of any drug used, or other torture aside from the myriad of cuts on the body. It's simply as if the heart… stopped."

"Because it was willed to…" Dean said softly, staring at the tragic forms splayed out before him.

"What was that?" Carter looked at him over his shoulder.

"Nothing," Dean shook his head and took a physical step back. He looked up at Calhoun. "You have any idea how the first two victims were connected?"

Calhoun shook his head. "We're still looking into it."

"Well, look faster, man," Dean ordered. "The more you know about how he's choosing them, the more you're gonna be able to anticipate his next move."

"I know," Calhoun whined. "I've just never… dealt with this stuff before."

"What, death?" Dean scoffed. "You picked the wrong line of work, dude."

"No," Calhoun scratched at his hairline. "Occult. Black magic."

Dean caught Carter's flinch out of the corner of his eye as he looked at Calhoun. "Yeah, you said that before. What makes you think this has to do with magic?"

Calhoun shrugged. "Ross, mostly. Guess that's what it all came down to last time."

Dean nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Would certainly explain this damn heat," he muttered.

"It would?" Calhoun asked, eager for some sort of plausible explanation for the unreality around him.

Dean waved a dismissive hand at him. "Forget it," he sighed. "Listen, I'm gonna need all you two get on these deaths, and the two from earlier in the week. And if you still have those other bodies on ice, I'm gonna need to see them, too."

"They're back in Brookville," Calhoun said.

"Where are these two going?" Dean asked, waggling his hand between the two bodies without actually looking at them.

"Brookville," Calhoun and Carter replied in unison.

"That rail car thing you put us up in have a phone?" Dean asked.

Calhoun nodded.

"You call me as soon as you have them back in Brookville," Dean ordered, pointing his index finger at the officer and turning from the grisly scene to head back toward his car. "And I want to talk to Ross!" He yelled over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Calhoun called after him. "Where are you going?"

Dean looked back over his shoulder just as the shrill whistle of a train cut the air. "Back to my partner," he said. "We've got work to do."

He paused at the driver's side door and shrugged from his heavy jacket, hissing as he was forced to roll his back and shoulder muscles to free his arms from the sleeves. Tugging his tie free, he unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt.

"Oh, hell with it," he muttered, glancing quickly to his left where the officer and coroner were still working on the crime scene. It was hotter than hell. No one should be expected to wear a freakin' _tie._ He jerked it off and threw it and the jacket into the back seat.

Sinking onto the heat-softened leather of the Impala's seat, he realized he could actually see the mirage of shimmering air along the dashboard. He pulled the sleeve of his shirt over his hand as he gripped the hot keys and turned on the engine. The Impala shuddered slightly, causing Dean to hold his breath in worry, then caught and rumbled to life.

"Atta girl," Dean encouraged, throwing the gear into reverse and slamming the accelerator to the floor.

www

"Quit blaming yourself."

The order was accompanied by the splash of ice water as a red plastic glass was clumped down in front of her.

"I trusted the bastard," Brenna sighed. "And he stood us up."

"I'm not talking about that Griffin guy," Virge revealed, sitting down across from her in the red vinyl booth, his work-worn hands meeting at the fingertips to make a steeple. "I'm talking about those people in Toby."

Brenna sat back, her fingers finding a tear in the vinyl seat and digging in, pulling the white foam padding from the worn-out depths. "I don't want to talk about that."

Virge tipped his fingers back in a shrug. "What if I don't care?" he challenged. "What if I want to know what you don't want to say?"

Brenna looked at him, pulling him in. She wanted to touch him, ached to see inside someone once more. But she was walking wounded, seeing the world with as much insight as anyone else. She felt as if she were wrapped in cotton, unable to feel anything, unable to truly take a breath.

"What?" Virge asked suddenly.

"Nothing," Brenna pulled her eyes away, resting them on the empty stretch of road that waited for her on the other side of the glass.

"You were… what were you looking for just then, Brenna?" Virge asked.

She could never deny the sexy draw of his voice. If she closed her eyes and simply listened to him talk, she could image herself rolling into his waiting arms and allowing him to care for her as she knew he so wanted to.

But she kept her eyes wide open, thirsty for what she could no longer see.

"You wouldn't understand," she informed him. "I've tried to explain it before and you… you don't get it, Virge."

"Well, try again," Virgil prompted. "I'll listen harder."

Brenna huffed out a laugh, leaning forward and pressing her hands flat on the table top. Her right hand landed in the sweat from the glass, slipping slightly before she found a grip. "It's not you, Sinatra," she said with a sad half-grin twisting the side of her face into a mask of acceptance. "It's me, okay? I'm… broken."

"It's this… this druid thing, right?"

Brenna nodded, leaning as close as she could to the edge of the table, her eyes wide as she searched his cobalt gaze. "Right. The druid thing. Hundreds of years of heritage and power. Hundreds of years of knowledge and sight. Hundreds of years of blood and tears and war and peace and love and loss and history and it's all fuckin' _gone_."

As she spoke her voice became lower, raspy, sandpaper wearing down her throat with the confession of reality.

To his credit, Virgil didn't flinch away from the raw pain in her words. He simply sat and watched and listened. She saw him fighting to understand, wanting to be the one who made it better for her. But there was only one person who could fix this—and her only lead to that person had left her standing on the outskirts of an abandoned lot staring at death.

"Why is it gone?" Virgil asked softly, not letting her look away. He dodged his head to catch her eyes once more. "I mean… have you ever thought that maybe… maybe this is what was supposed to happen? That you had that… that gift for a purpose. A reason. For just a little while and then—"

"But it wasn't just a little while," Brenna said, sitting back and covering her face with her hands, feeling the wet trail from the ice water track down the side of her face. "It was my whole life. And then… Declan died, and Dean left and…"

"And you changed," Virgil said.

"Yeah." Brenna dropped her hands. "Yeah, I changed. I used to be able to see people, Virge. I could touch you and know you from the inside out. I could look at you and know in a breath if you were lying to me. I… I _felt_ people _shimmering_ all around me…"

Virge was silent, waiting. Brenna swallowed, trying to will the lump in her throat to dissolve and the burning in her eyes to abate. She would _not_ cry in front of him. Not _him._ Not the man who loved her with his eyes even as he resisted the obvious desire to touch her. Not the man who had shadowed her relentlessly through these months of searching for a place to belong, a ground.

"When I started to dream about this guy," Brenna looked out through the window once more, "I thought it was a warning. That my vision had returned and I was seeing something dark inside of me. Or… you, maybe."

"Me?" Virgil pulled back, pressing against the red seat with a creak of plastic.

"You were the only one close enough to me when the dreams started." Brenna said, not looking back at him. "And, sorry, but I don't know everything about you."

"Not for lack of me trying," Virge muttered.

Brenna ignored him.

"There was always so much blood and these weird flashes of light—took me awhile to realize it was the blade of a knife reflecting. And this voice, constant, like a song or a chant." She looked down at her hands laying open in her lap, palms up and exposed, almost in supplication to her own will. "I didn't really get that it was a message… a warning… until we heard about Griffin from that Ellen lady."

Virgil sighed, and Brenna felt the table tremble slightly as he dropped his head in his hands. She looked at the top of his red hat, feeling her chest tighten with an unnamed, unidentified need. She curled her fingers in against the palms of her hands, squeezing her fists tight enough to leave crescent-shaped indentions on her own flesh.

_How can you want someone and loathe someone so much inside of the same heartbeat?_ She wondered. Virgil was now a constant. A guardian. A protector. He loved her, she knew. Completely without complete understanding. And she almost hated him for it.

"I let those people in Toby die," she said softly.

"Stop it, Bren," Virge said, his voice echoing softly against the table.

"I saw it, I knew it was going to happen," she kept her eyes on the top of his head, willing him to look up, hoping she could push him far enough that he'd stand up and walk away. "I almost wanted it to happen in a way… then maybe I could find the owner of that kni—"

"I said _stop_, for Christ's sake!" Virgil snapped, bringing his head up sharply, his eyes hot. "You can push all you want, you stubborn bitch, but I made a promise. I'm not walking away from you, from _this_. Somewhere in that screwed up head of yours, I gotta believe you know that. I gotta believe…"

With that, Virgil stood from the far corner booth they occupied inside the truck stop's diner and headed toward the other side of the truck stop, pushing through the glass doors that separated the diner from the shop. Brenna watched him go, then slid her eyes back toward the road. As she watched, a black Chevy blazed past the truck stop. She blinked slowly, tiredly, thinking of Virgil.

"You'll walk away," she quietly predicted. "One day, you'll walk away."

www

A subtle tremble through her large, black body was his first indication that something was wrong. It felt like an intake of air that shuddered out like a quake of fear. Frowning, he tightened his grip and focused his eyes on her dash, checking for more warning signs.

His shirt clung to the muscled contours of his chest and back, sticking with painful clarity to the seeping wounds left behind as a reminder of just how much his father cared. He felt a bead of sweat follow a familiar path down the side of his face, shimmying when it hit the scruff of beard along his jaw.

When the steam filtered like curling tendrils of languid thought before his eyes, Dean pounded his fist against the hard metal beneath his fingers.

"Son of a _bitch_!" Dean felt his heart flinch as his voice bounced around the interior of the oddly-quiet Impala.

The oppressive heat, a heavy blanket of humidity lying over the world, had seemed to sap the battery power of the Chevy. In an attempt to keep her going, Dean had turned the radio and the air conditioning off, the windows down, on the return trip from Toby, but the abused machine finally submitted to the elements, spewing steam and fluid through the seams in the hood as though giving up her life's blood.

"Dammit," he growled, looking in his rear-view mirror quickly, then darting his eyes ahead once more. Nothing. No one. Only grass, dirt, and sad, sagging trees. "Well, that's just fuckin' _great._"

The car limped to the side of the road as Dean pulled as close to the shade of a large tree as he could get. Shutting off the over-heated engine, Dean stepped from the relative protection of the shaded Impala into the intense sunlight. Grabbing his suit jacket from the back seat and wrapping it around his right hand, he moved around to the front of the ticking car and released the lever to raise the hood.

He stumbled back several steps, automatically throwing his hands in front of his face for protection as scalding-hot steam billowed from beneath the hood. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, he approached the Impala cautiously, eyes scanning her engine for latent bursts of scalding liquid.

The unseasonable heat should have done more than fray his already raw nerves. If he'd listened to Sam instead of his own pride—instead of running away like a pussy—he would have picked up a gallon of radiator fluid from that truck stop they passed on the way to Toby.

Pulling in a breath through his nose and exhaling it through his lips, he argued silently that he hadn't really planned on being in overheated Pennsylvania on the cusp of winter. Hell, he hadn't _planned_ anything, it seemed, in the last nine months. He was a pinball ricocheting through what was left of his life, hoping to hit a buzzer and not fall through the cracks.

Biting his lip, Dean resisted the overwhelming urge to kick the front tire. Instead he took two bouncing steps back, grabbed an errant stone from the ground near his feet, whirled, and threw it down the empty road with the force of a major-league pitcher. His wounded back pulled tight in protest.

"_SON OF A BITCH!"_

His frustrated scream was echoed by the startled cry of a circling hawk. It was childish, he knew, but yelling had felt good. Tension burbling in his chest released like a valve over his heart. For good measure, he kicked another rock with the inside of his foot, sending it spiraling down the road.

Sighing, he ran his calloused hands through his short, sweaty hair, then turned to face the Impala.

"I'm sorry, baby," he said softly, feeling her silent disappointment. "I'll be back."

Tossing the now-ruined jacket into the back seat, Dean unbuttoned his suit shirt and slid it from his sweaty arms, the white T-shirt beneath it plastered to his skin. Rolling up the windows, but leaving the hood propped up to cool the engine, he locked the car, tied his extra shirt around his waist, and started the long walk back down the road to the last vestige of civilization he'd seen.

He walked with his head down, the sun beating a tattoo of radiating heat against his exposed neck. The wetness of anger in his mouth began to slowly fade as he watched his feet move forward, replaced by a thick, sticky dryness that began to make his tongue swell.

_Hotter than Hell…_

A sarcastic laugh tumbled out of him before he could catch it. He squinted down the road to check his progress, then dropped his eyes to keep walking. The skin on the back of his arms began to pull tight as the suns rays burned him.

_Wonder how hot Hell actually is,_ he mused as he walked. Plodded. Left right left right. Dusty boot after dusty boot slipping into his line of sight. Rocks kicked to the side, tufts of gravel dust blossoming up, then dying in his wake.

_Maybe Hell is cold. Sam's Dante book says it's cold. _

_Bobby says Hell could just be a state of mind—separation from God. Pretty damn far from God here… maybe _this_ is Hell. _

_Nah, Sam's here. No way this is Hell. Hell's definitely a _place_. _

He stumbled on a discarded, flattened soda can, shaking his head a bit as he regained his balance. Tiny white spots shimmered brightly at the corners of his eyes, then faded to be replaced by the surreal setting of landscape drenched in too-bright sunlight.

_Yeah, it's a place I'm gonna go. Guess I'll get to see first hand if it's hot or cold. So, I've got that going for me. Which is nice._

He chuckled softly to himself. _Laugh and the world laughs with you, right?_

Sam had promised him. Promised they'd find a way out of this. And with that promise, Dean's eyes were opened to how hard Sam had been trying all year, how he'd been turning himself inside out to find a solution, literally leaving no stone unturned. An odd chill slid through Dean, even as the suffocating air pressed tight around him.

He would _not_ lose Sam to this deal. No way. He did his job—he took care of Sam, brought him back, saved him. Sam was more important—he _meant_ more to the world, to the greater good. He was _needed_ here. Dean's job was—had always been—to make sure Sam stayed. Safe.

_Safe. _

Bringing his head up once more hoping to see the truck stop's metallic roof reflecting in the distance, Dean conjured a mental picture of a bank vault. The old-fashioned kind with the multi-pronged door lock. Dropping his eyes after seeing nothing but empty blacktop, he imagined stuffing Sam inside, slamming the door on his protests, spinning the lock.

Situation solved.

Licking his dry lips, he wondered why he never thought to climb inside himself. He was always on the outside, hoping, waiting, trusting, bracing himself for the worst. He reached up and wiped the corners of his mouth with the tip of his index finger and thumb. He hated that white gunk that gathered at the corner of his mouth when he was thirsty.

_Shit, how far did I drive?_ He looked up again. Nothing.

The air was so still he could hear his breath in his throat before it escaped his body. He could hear his heartbeat. He glanced to the left at the tangle of flora. To his right the road shimmered with a mirage of heat. He could very well be the last man on earth.

_Sam is out there, you dumbass. The heat is frying your brain._

Reaching up at that thought, he brushed the top of his head. His hair was so hot that he jerked his hand back in surprise. Frowning, he fashioned a long bandana from his extra shirt, tying it around his head. His T-shirt clung to him uncomfortably, but he didn't dare take it off. The pain from peeling away the semi-clotted wounds was not something he wanted to deal with out here on the backside of nowhere. Plus… sunburns were bad.

_Sam is waiting for you to get back. So cowboy up and get this handled._

Triggered by his internal pep talk, Dean picked up his pace, shimmers of heat starting to play with his vision. Every moment apart from Sam felt like years. Before Cold Oak, before feeling the odd heaviness of his brother's lifeless body, Dean had moments where he would gladly take a break from his constant companion.

But since The Deal, since the clock started ticking, he hadn't even minded that Sam waited outside in the car for him while he… enjoyed the finer things in life.

Dean grinned at the memory. There was something life-affirming about the feel of a woman. Wetting his lips again with a tongue that now felt two sizes too big for his mouth, Dean thought about seeing Lisa in his dreams. Not simply _Lisa_, but the idea of a woman's companionship. Stability. Body. Warmth.

For life.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

His thoughts had been wandering, the way they always did when he didn't have a path or a mission. Left to his own devices, ideas of a possible—or now _im_possible future—crowded out the specs of his .45, the feel of his balanced Bowie, the smell of burning fuel and salt.

Burning salt—and the bones they consumed—was not a scent he could easily forget. Yet, thinking about the dream of Lisa, about what she represented…home, family, a life beyond him. A child. A human reflection of his soul out in the world, walking around on its own… it tripped him up. Melted his breath inside his lungs and incinerated rational thought.

_Get it together, Dean._

A glint caught his eye. He jerked his head up. The truck stop hovered like an oasis in the distance.

"It's about freakin' time."

He felt as if he'd been walking for hours, but the sun was just as intense as when he started. The heat of his own skin sent a chill racing along his arms, leaving goose bumps behind like breadcrumbs.

He looked down at his hands, noting how fat his fingers suddenly felt. He'd lost track of the distance, the space between here and back there, but his body told him that coupled with the balls-to-the-wall rush of the last several days, a walk without water in the heat of the day had _not_ been wise.

Shuffling steps moved him forward; tiny clouds of dust in the still air heralded his approach. He shook his hands out, trying to release the unusual tension that stretched the skin across the back of them so tight he felt it would crack if he made a fist.

_Get there, get fluid, get going. _

He nodded at the wisdom of his plan, then paused, dry lips smacking together.

_No, wait, scratch that. Get there, get water…and maybe some beef jerky…_He smiled groggily. M_mmm beef jerky. Hunter's ambrosia. _

Folding his lips down in a thoughtful, drowsy smile, he nodded again. _Seriously, is there anything better than meat, dried and packaged? Take it with you anywhere. Could be hunting a werewolf in the woods, feel hungry? Hey, here's some beef jerky!_

He rubbed his eyes, feeling them sizzle when he pressed the lids down, sparklers worthy of Independence Day shooting across the dark. Left right left right left…trip…

_Open your friggin' eyes, Dean._

And he was there. Trying not to whimper aloud, he crossed the still-empty street, amazed that there were cars parked in the lot in front of the truck stop. He tilted his head. Cars and a motorcycle.

"Huh," he croaked.

He'd seen a motorcycle just like that pass him when he was driving to Toby. Stumbling closer, he brought the small license plate into focus. A silver band surrounded the official numbers. He tilted his head slightly, squinting against the sun's glare. There was a word inscribed on the band. _Creideamh._

"Holy shit."

It couldn't be her. There had to be other people in the world who drove a '60's model Indian. It _couldn't_ be Brenna Kavanagh… Could it?

In a dizzying rush of memory, staggering him with the weight of the images, Dean pulled her eyes, her lips, the feel of her skin, the harsh slap of her anger, the fine caress of her touch from somewhere deep inside of him. Somewhere buried under so much rubble he'd thought he'd never dig her out. And didn't know if he wanted to.

"Son of a…"

He turned to the entrance and pushed through the glass doors, the metal bar brand-iron hot from the sun, and felt his knees go weak as the cool air conditioning replaced the stifling humidity. Shaking his stinging hand he pulled off his shirt-turban, using a sleeve to wipe his face. He looked around quickly and saw her at a far booth, her back to him.

_Of all the gin joints in all the cities in all the world…_

Her hair was longer then when he'd last seen her, and she wore it twisted into a loose reddish-blonde knot fastened with what looked like a pencil stabbed through the mess. He stared hard at the back of her head. He _knew_ it was her.

Knew even before her shoulders stiffened and he heard her coffee mug _thunk_ on the Formica table top. Knew before she turned slightly in the booth, offering him a glimpse of her striking profile. Knew before her unusual eyes hit him like a punch in the gut.

"Son of a bitch," she breathed.

The room seemed to tilt around him and he felt the floor roll. Blinking, he staggered slightly as he headed toward the counter and tried not to beg when he said, "Water. Lots and lots of water."

Someone with coffee-stained fingers stood behind the counter. Dean didn't register if the person were large or small, tall or short, male or female. He simply saw the fingers disappear and reappear, gripping a glass of water. Dean downed the contents without a single intake of breath, slamming it down and ticking his finger at the empty glass.

"Hit me," he rasped.

She hadn't approached him. He could feel her eyes, but she hadn't moved. As he downed another glass, his knees stopped working entirely and he found his back pockets hitting the round-topped stool.

The last time he'd seen her, she had been almost hollow. Her whole world had burned away. Everyone and everything she'd known. And she'd stood in the middle of it, silently building her own wall of protection, figuring out how she was to escape the same fate.

_Someday…_

She'd said they'd find each other. At the time he'd liked how the illusion of a promise had sounded, and had been broken enough physically to _need_ to hear it. But he hadn't believed, not really.

And he'd forgotten it completely—had almost forgotten _her_—when his lips met the pliant, cold mouth of a demon.

He drank another glass and was grateful when the liquid was returned without his having to ask. He kept Brenna in his periphery, his entire body tight in the anticipation of her next move.

She seemed to sigh a bit as she stood, balancing herself. He felt her breathe. A chill raced along his arms again, drying the sweat streaks on his back, drawing his damp shirt close to his skin. He didn't turn her way; simply waiting for her to approach had started to liquefy his belly.

"Dean."

He'd always liked the way his name sounded in her voice—like she was _tasting_ it. Even when she was pissed beyond measure, when she said his name, he knew it was safe in her mouth.

"Brenna," he replied, dropping his chin a bit and looking at her from the corners of his eyes. It was a reflexive, protective glance. One he knew brought about a certain reaction in women, and one that kept him just enough away from them that _they_ had to choose to close the gap between them.

She was dressed in jeans, worn through to pale denim on the insides of her thighs, and a gray Pink Floyd _Dark Side of the Moon_ T-shirt, the rainbow and the prism bending around her breasts. Dean darted his eyes to her hands resting loosely at her waist, thumbs hooked into her empty belt loops.

_Damn_.

It had been months… _months_ since he'd seen her. So much had happened, so much was pending… and all he wanted to do was drink in her lips. Here. Now.

Her eyes slid quickly over his face and took in his haggard, sweaty appearance. He knew how much she could _really_ see; he knew she could see inside of him if she wanted to. If she touched him, all bets were off. And he wasn't ready for her to know.

"Hot out there," she stated matter-of-factly, her voice slightly rough, as if she'd been screaming.

"You could say that," he replied, tipping the crushed ice from his nearly-empty glass into his mouth, filling the hollow beneath his tongue and letting it melt there.

"Where's Sam," Brenna asked, looking past him. He saw the briefest shadow cross her face and his heart seized. "Is he—"

"He's fine," Dean interrupted. "We're… on a job," he glanced at the scattering of patrons too involved in their own lives to eavesdrop on the conversation between what probably looked like a weathered vagrant and a college student. "I had some supplies to get and I'm heading back toward him."

"On foot?" She raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking.

Dean curled his lips in, enjoying the feel of his cold tongue on the still-warm flesh. "I, uh, had some car trouble."

Her other brow met the arched one in a look of disbelief. "_You?_"

The way she said the word made him feel like he'd just admitted to kicking a puppy.

"Hey," he frowned, looking at the bottom of his water glass. "It happens."

He felt her finger press against the back of his arm before he could pull away.

"You got some sun," she said softly, leaning close to peer at the back of his neck. "Damn, Dean, your back is a mess! What the hell happened to you?"

He realized as he absorbed her scent that he'd forgotten to breathe for a moment when she touched him. Brenna's touch had always opened him up, left him bare, exposed things he worked all his life to keep hidden. Her grandfather had warned them that her druid past meant that they couldn't lie to her. But for Dean, it had gone deeper than lies. The abilities that fell to her because of her druid origins had striped his mask and shown her the layers of scars that went deeper than the tough outer shell of his skin.

"How did you…" he didn't know how to ask the question.

_How did you just touch me without recoiling in fear? How did you _not_ see the Hell that rolls inside me, the Hell that haunts me, the Hell that waits for me?_

"You tangle with a cougar or something?" Brenna pressed, ignoring his half-spoken question.

"What?" Dean couldn't seem to pin a clear line of question to the wall of his brain.

"Your back—you have some bloody patches here," Brenna pointed, but didn't touch him again. He realized he was holding himself tense, pulling away from her.

"Oh," Dean looked over his shoulder, unable to see the wounds. "Yeah, I, uh, got hit by a rock-salt landmine."

Brenna shook her head, scanning his face with quiet eyes. "Of course you did."

Dean gratefully drank once more of his refilled water glass. He couldn't seem to get enough. He was bottomless, dry from the inside out. And she was making him thirsty for something water wouldn't quench.

"So… Sam's okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and tried to feel as though he wasn't lying. Physically, Sam was fine. Mentally, he was strung out. Emotionally he was abused. But, then again, he was a Winchester. "I gotta get some radiator fluid. Get back to him. "

A strong scent suddenly filled Dean's nostrils, sharp and tangy, like burning incense. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder, away from Brenna.

"Oh, hey, Virge," Brenna said, greeting the figure who now loomed near them, just about to shut the door that separated the diner from the truck stop shop and showers. "Dean, you remember Virgil, right?"

Dean turned fully on the stool, taking in the sight of the blue-eyed paramedic that Sam had dubbed _Sinatra_. He was solidly built, dressed in worn jeans and a white T-shirt with the Coca-Cola logo across the chest, a red Dodgers baseball hat on backwards, hiding his lack of hair. His face held the lines of age, but his eyes danced with youth.

"Uh, sure," Dean tipped his chin up. "Hey, man."

Virgil nodded at Dean, his mouth tight. "You coming, Bren?"

"Not just yet."

Virgil narrowed his eyes. "Getting late. Not a lot of sun left."

"Could be a good thing, hot as it is out there," Brenna returned.

Dean felt the quiet conversation that _wasn't_ happening, holding very still as a decision was made, not sure what the choices had been.

"Yeah, well, do what you think is best," Virgil said quietly, pushing his way out through the door and back into the trucker's area.

"Always do," Brenna said softly.

"You're… with… him?" Dean asked hesitantly as he turned back to face her. This close to her, he could see the lines that the sun had drawn around where her shades had protected her large, odd eyes.

_Freckles_, he thought. _Has she always had freckles?_

"We're traveling together," she replied, not really answering him.

His belly rolled with a unique heat, one he recognized and usually welcomed. As the warmth traveled lower, he felt alarm bells clang in his ears and launched to his feet, looking for a quick escape.

"Well, okay, listen, I—"

The slow spin of the world caught him off guard and he was forced to grab the counter top or fall forward on his face.

"Whoa!" Brenna stepped forward, grabbing his upper arms. "How long were you out there?"

Her eyes traveled his face, searching. He straightened. There had rarely been a time that he'd been whole around Brenna. Parts of him were always broken. And she seemed destined to try to put him back together.

"'M okay," he breathed.

"Sure you are," Brenna pushed him back on the stool. "Does Sam know you're—"

"Leave Sam out of this!" Dean snapped. "Why do you keep asking about Sam?"

Brenna leaned back on her heels, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because I can't remember a time when you two were separated for a good reason."

Dean stared at her.

"You're part of each other," she shrugged.

"Well," he said, softer this time. "He's fine. But he's gonna start to wonder where the hell I am, so I better get going."

"I'll take you." The words rushed from her as if she was afraid _not_ saying them would leave a hollow between them that nothing else would fill.

"What?" Dean started to stand, but sat back down again quickly. "No."

Brenna lifted an eyebrow. "You're, what, gonna _walk_ back to the Impala?"

"Yeah."

"Dean, you look like you've been rode hard and put away wet," she shook her head.

His mouth went dry. The words _hard_ and _wet_ seemed to slow as her lips parted to release them. He closed his eyes briefly, pulling in a calming breath. He needed more time if he was going to walk back. He needed help if he was going to be coherent enough to keep up with Sam on this hunt once he told his brother about the bodies back in Toby.

"…obviously hurt and I'm not going to just let you walk out of here into that heat," she said sternly, having continued her argument as he folded inside himself, weighing his options.

"Fine."

"Why? Because I—wait, what did you say?" She paused mid-rant.

"I said fine."

"Oh," she blinked. "Well, okay then. Go and get your…" She waved her hand vaguely.

"Radiator fluid."

"Right."

Dean stood carefully, waited for the world to right itself, then stepped away from the counter as Brenna paid her bill. He walked into the truck stop section of the building, ears instantly assaulted by blaring TVs, arcade games, and Muzak piped over the speakers.

_What the hell am I doing, getting a _ride_ from her?_ He wandered the rows filled with oil and engine supplies, eyes searching blankly. _This is not the time for distractions. This is not the time for seeing what might happen. This is not the time for—_his eyes hit the rows of feminine supplies and condoms. _Oh, you've gotta be kidding me…_

"Dean."

Dean jerked his head up at the dark rumble of the voice to his left. _Sinatra_.

"Hey," he greeted simply.

"She's got her own baggage to deal with," Virgil said, his bright blue eyes glittering slightly.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You warning me off?"

"I'm just saying," Virgil shrugged.

"You with her, man?" Dean asked Virgil the same question he'd posed to Brenna. He bit the inside of his cheek as Virgil looked away. That was answer enough.

"Just be careful," Virgil said.

"I'm getting a ride and getting back to my brother," Dean said. "Simple as that."

Virgil looked down at his hands, then lifted his eyes to Dean. "With Brenna," he shrugged a shoulder, "nothing's simple."

He walked away, leaving Dean to stare at the rows of condoms. "Son of a bitch," Dean growled, stomping down the aisle to the radiator fluid, grabbing up a jug and making a bee-line to the check-out counter.

"Anything else?" The bored-looking attendant asked.

"No," Dean snapped.

_I do _not_ want condoms. I don't _want_ anything. I just need to get my girl up and running and get back on the job. I need to get back on track. I need to… dammit… I need to stop thinking about her damn _mouth_._

Pocketing his change, Dean turned on his heel, slipping out through the back door and contemplating heading down the highway. The waves of heat that slammed into him from all sides changed his mind. His body was too worn from the last several days, too hollowed-out from the truth the dream walking had revealed to him—_you're gonna die, Dean, and this is what you're gonna become—_and too bone-dry from this unnatural heat to bear the brunt of the return trip.

The suffocating stillness sucked the air from his lungs as though a vacuum cleaner hose had been shoved down his throat. He nearly gagged from the lack of breeze as he searched the lot for Brenna. He saw her just as she swung a long leg over the back of her bike, settling her nicely-shaped ass on the seat, the slim curve of her back making him swallow a groan.

She shot him a look as he approached. He couldn't read it and didn't want to.

"You can put that jug in my bags," she said, pointing to what looked like saddle bags. "I don't have an extra helmet."

Dean did as she instructed, then shrugged. "I have a hard head."

"Climb on," she said, strapping the black helmet under her chin and waiting until he settled in behind her to kick the engine on. "You might want to put that extra shirt on over those wounds."

Silently arguing that he was just fine, dammit, and didn't need any suggestions from her, Dean did as she said.

"Damn, it's hot out here," she sighed.

"Sam says it's not a normal heat," Dean informed her.

"Sam's a smart guy," she replied.

Dean had been on the back of a bike before, but never behind someone. Never behind Brenna. The thrill of the rumble between his legs only served to amplify his already heady senses and as she pulled out he realized he had two choices: hold on to the tiny bar just under his rear-end, or hold on to her waist.

Swallowing his enormous pride with an almost-audible gulp, he set his hands at her waist, trying to block out the scoop of her shape, the memory of how she moved against him, how her skin had felt as it glided smoothly over the hard planes of his belly.

_Get a fuckin' _grip_, Winchester._

Dean leaned forward. "She's a few miles down this road. On the right."

"We'll find her," Brenna shouted back.

Dean pulled back slightly, his eyes catching on the Celtic tattoo on her neck. The Gaelic word for _faith_. Something she claimed she'd never had in herself. Something he'd seen her exhibit multiple times. Saving him. Saving Sam. Helping them to save each other.

Safety and danger wrapped around Brenna like a vine, pulling him close to her and pushing him away at the same time. He felt twisted and torn. Excitement and dread began to battle in his chest, making it hard for him to take a deep breath.

He pictured the vault. Sam's vault. With Sam safely inside. He pictured the wheel lock. He watched his hand reach for the lock, spinning it, opening it, seeing Sam standing there on the other side, whole, happy. He closed his eyes and subconsciously leaned forward, his chest resting lightly against Brenna's back.

He wanted inside. And he couldn't move.

After they'd ridden for a bit in silence and memories, Brenna called out, "There she is."

Dean jerked back, gripping her sides tighter in reaction. As they slowed, Dean realized the wind that had been cooling the sweat on his neck was simply from their speed and not from any release of oppressive heat.

"Yep, that's my baby," he said, his smile genuine as Brenna pulled off the road behind the Impala, stopping the Indian in the shade of the large tree.

Dean swung from the back and grabbed the radiator fluid, making his way to the front of the Chevy. In his periphery, he could see Brenna pulling her helmet off, the pencil-thing holding her hair tumbling loose and spilling a mess of shoulder-length red-gold curls out to hang limply around her face.

He found himself stopping and looking. There was something arresting about her face. Conventionally, she wasn't beautiful. Her large eyes were hard to look at sometimes, and her rosebud mouth was set in a quirk of humor that made people think she knew something they didn't.

Which, Dean surmised, leaning into the engine, she usually did. But she made up for her lack of cover-girl beauty with the _way _she used her face, the way she held her slim, strong body.

The way she climbed under his skin and made herself at home.

"I forgot how pretty she is," Brenna's voice filtered toward him, making him jerk upright, barely missing cracking his skull on the underside of the hood. "You've got yourself a nice machine here, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, pouring the rest of the radiator fluid into the opening, the greasy cap resting on the edge of the engine. "My own damn fault for not taking better care of her."

"You were distracted," Brenna said, indicating his back with a tip of her chin and leaning against the front passenger door. She propped her feet up on the tree so that her denim legs made a bridge.

Watching her, he immediately thought of crawling under her legs.

_Stop it_. Where had these cravings come from? Was it simply his ticking clock, his world turned sideways? Was it a desperate reach for the impossible? Brenna wasn't one of the Double mint twins. She wasn't a sexy bartender or a classy pool hustle. She was _real_, dammit.

"No excuse," Dean said.

"That you talking? Or your Dad?"

Dean twisted the radiator cap closed and shut the hood, drawing her eyes. "You never knew my Dad."

"I knew enough," she said softly, reminding him with a glance how much she had seen when she looked inside of him.

He stared at her for a moment, watching the heat draw moisture from her skin to bead on her upper lip and run down the side of her face. He felt it tickle the curve of his spine and wanted to pluck his T-shirt away from his body.

"Thanks for the ride."

Brenna ran a tongue across her lips, looking down. Dean held his breath, waiting for her to say something. _Anything_. Wanting her to call his bluff, tell him he was being an ass, launch herself at him. They were like opposing magnets, he thought. Drawn to each other and yet kept apart by an invisible force that emanated directly _from_ them.

_Someone just needs to flip over. _

Instead, she pressed her hands flat against the Impala, dropping her feet and looked over at him, tipping her fingertips to her forehead in a salute.

"You're welcome," she said. "Maybe I'll see you around again… someday."

And there it was.

The promise they'd made before there were deals with demons. Before Hell had opened its arms for him, a place all picked out, devils salivating for his arrival. Hot or cold, there was a Hell, and he was facing it.

_Alone._

"Brenna," he called. "Wait."

She stopped at the trunk of the Impala, turning her head to look at it, not him. She brushed her fingertip along the black body.

"I don't know what to say…"

She turned to face him. "Why do you have to say anything?"

"A lot has happened to me—to Sam and me—since… since I last saw you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Well, I've been living in a plastic bubble."

Dean huffed out a laugh. He'd almost forgotten her. _Almost_. Her meaning was clear. He wasn't the only one with a story. He watched as she let her eyes travel from the tips of his dust-covered boots to his sun-heated face. Parts of her voice, her touch, her sight lingered in his memory.

Yet it had been _Lisa_ he'd seen in his dream—that Sam had seen. But was it Lisa he wanted, or the stability she represented? The hope…

"I can't see you, Dean," Brenna said quietly.

"Why is it that you're always telling me that?" He felt his sweaty face pull together in a frustrated frown.

She shook her head. "No, that's not what I mean." She stepped forward. "When… when Declan died, something changed. I… lost it."

"Lost it?" Dean asked, somehow sensing that she wasn't talking about tears. Wasn't talking about emotions. _I can't see you…_ "You mean, you lost your, uh, powers?"

Brenna nodded. "When I touch people… they're just… people. They are what they show me."

"But—"

She shrugged, the motion stopping his protest. "I can't explain it. But there you go. Sometimes gifts are gifts and sometimes they're simply moments in time."

Dean thought of Sam's premonitions, his death visions. They had all ended when Azazel died.

"I'm… sorry, Brenna," he said sincerely. "That's gotta be…" He turned his hands over helplessly.

"It's like learning how to breathe again," she said, taking another step toward him.

He felt her yearn for his touch. He felt her want to reach out to him and hold herself away at the same time. He recognized the dichotomy of feeling only because he'd been there. So many times before.

He took a step toward her. No more space than the body of another person separated them now.

_Why now…_ he wondered helplessly. _Why run into her _now_, in this moment, in this place? Why couldn't I have just left it at someday and had her wonder for the rest of her life what had happened to that screwed-up hunter who had crossed her path a few times? _

He didn't want her to know he was going to Hell. He didn't want her to know that Sam had died. He didn't want her to know that his world had stopped in that moment and until his breathless confession of _I don't want to die…I don't want to go to Hell_…everything he'd said and done had been a façade. A way to keep the mask in place.

He didn't want her to take away the mask. He was safe inside that act.

"Brenna…" he breathed softly, reaching out carefully to lightly touch the smooth, bare skin of her arm. _What the hell am I doing_?

"It's okay," she took a step back. "I know what you're thinking."

He frowned, his fingers freezing in motion against her arm. "Wait, I thought you just said—"

She rolled her eyes, looking so much like Sam in that moment that he flinched. "Not because I'm a druid, Dean. Because I _know _you."

He drew his shoulders back, dropping his hand. "Oh yeah?" He challenged.

"Yeah," she tossed back, cocking her hip against the Impala and crossing her arms. "You're thinking, what the hell am I doing?"

He felt the blood drain from his head and race itself to his belly.

"You're thinking, Sam's waiting for me, I'm already running late. You're thinking, I've got a job to do, and she's not in the plan. You're thinking, I don't have time for this, and even if I want to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her, I can't."

She straightened and he saw her pulse beating at the base of her throat. His blood pounded against itself to get to the bend of his hips, flooding his groin with heat, shaking his knees with need.

"You're thinking," she stepped toward him once more. "I can't because it doesn't make sense to be focused on the damn _job_ one minute and something that I _want _the next. You're thinking, she's not just a fling, a roll in the hay, the barmaid from the Down and Dirty. You're thinking, she _counts _and that's scary as hell and I don't want to—"

Dean grabbed her arms, pressing her against the Impala, the curve at the small of her back absorbing the jut of the door handle, aligning the length of his body with hers and capturing her mouth with his in a drink of flesh.

_God, she tastes so good…_

It was like water, wine, and poison all at once. He slanted his mouth, feeling her press her arms forward, reaching for him. He breathed in the heady scent that traveled along her skin, the scent of sweat and road and wind and woman. He relaxed slightly, allowing her to dig her fingers into his biceps and arch up into him.

"What am I thinking now?" he asked against her mouth.

"Who's thinking?" she breathed.

He wanted more. He wanted it all. He wanted to feel her inside and out. He wanted to be safe with her, just for a moment, just pretend that none of this was real. That Hell was a place demons went. That angels were watching over him and heroes who saved the day were rewarded with a kiss.

The sound of her breath as she broke from him briefly was intoxicating. It was rough and needy and rich. He slid his arms from her elbows to her neck, fingers slipping on the sweat there, skidding up into the hot nest of her long curls, pressing her mouth closer.

She gripped at his loose, damp shirt, pulling at it like she was desperate for skin, trying to hold her self closer. Her body felt like it was gasping against him, pushing close and slipping away with every rocking heartbeat.

It struck him suddenly as he swept his tongue along the insides of her lips that they had rarely been together when he wasn't damaged. He could think of one time out of three…one time where she hadn't had to be careful of hurting him more…where he just took her and branded her as he was doing now.

"Someday—" she whispered.

"Shhh…" he pulled his head away from her mouth, looking at her wide eyes, her swollen lips. "Don't."

"I was just going to say," she panted, dropping her head back against the roof of the Impala as he gripped her thighs and lifted her so her legs could wrap around his waist. "That someday we should really think about doing this in a nice, big bed."

He almost laughed. His grin shook through him and he watched her eyes drowsily find his.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Sure, I'm sure," she said. "A king size would be great…"

"No," Dean shook his head. "I mean about now…"

"Dean, I swear to _God_ if you don't fuck me right now I'm going to—"

He silenced her threat with a kiss that pulled her exhale into his lungs, filling him. He breathed her in, offering her nothing back, making her fight for every gasp, hearing the small whimpers in her throat turn into moans as he pulled his mouth away to trail kisses down her salty neck, licking the sweat away, turned on by the idea that he was taking more of her into him.

She thrust her denim-clad hips against his, almost growling when he pressed his open mouth over her T-shirt-covered breast.

"Oh, God," she whimpered. "You're gonna kill me…"

"Don't worry," he whispered. "I know what I'm doing."

She went suddenly stiff, confusing him. She released her hold on his hips, shoving him back with trembling hands.

"What am _I_ doing?" she muttered, pushing her sweaty hair away from her face.

"_Me,_ unless I am really off my game," Dean frowned.

He couldn't move away from her now if his life depended on it. He _needed_ her mouth, her hands, the honeysuckle and salt smell of her. He needed to bury himself inside of her so deep he would need a guide to find his way out again. He needed to forget everything but her. Feel nothing but her.

"You _do_ know what you're doing, don't you?" She asked, her voice trembling. "Do you know that ever since that damn banshee, there's been no one else for me but you?"

Dean instantly thought of Sinatra and felt a cold splash of pity wash through him. "Brenna—"

"But _you_…" she shook her head, sliding down the Impala until she crouched next to the door, her head resting on the door handle. "You've got the seduction technique _down_. You know _exactly _what you're doing. And I know you've used it on plenty…"

Dean thought of Lisa…the double mint twins…the beautiful, natural act he'd teased his brother about. He thought of Casey, and Cassie. He thought of all the girls who had just been a way to make the demons go away and had only ended up adding to his roster.

"Doesn't matter," he said, a dawning realization coursing through him, filling him, making him hard enough to shake.

"Yeah?" She challenged, tilting her kiss-swollen lips up at him in a pout. "Why?"

He sank to his knees in front of her, the shade tree offering solace from the dying sun, its heat as intense as it was in the strength of the day. He reached out and with gentleness he thought beyond him, caressed the edge of her jaw, running his thumb across her lips.

"It just doesn't," he said, swallowing, unable to find a reason good enough, unable to put a coherent voice to the screaming in his head.

She looked at him then, her eyes raking over him, taking in every line, every scar, every place the world had wounded him, every moment he had resisted. He felt himself react to her eyes.

"I need to leave," she said suddenly, pushing him away and gaining her feet, using the heated metal of the Impala for balance. "I can't do this now. Not now… not like this."

Dean clamored to his feet. "I want to see you again," he said.

"You will," she promised, turning to face him. "Someday," she added with a sad grin.

"Someday's not good enough," he replied, his eyes burning.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Just that… shit happens, y'know? And _someday_… one of us might not be here." He swallowed as his voice broke, feeling exposed as he'd never been when she'd used her druid sight on him.

She stepped up to him, touching his cheek, the back of her smooth hand bumping softly against the barely-there stubble on his chin. Her lips were no longer swollen, but his scruff had rubbed the edges enough that they looked used and raw. He'd branded her after all.

"What do I need to see, Dean? What aren't you telling me?" She dropped her hand.

"Nothing," he lied. "Just that… I… I want more."

Brenna looked down. "I woke up one day… soon after we left Declan's place… and somehow knew exactly what I was supposed to do." She lifted her eyes. "In the months since then, it's all gotten really cloudy."

Dean shivered in the heat, unsure why he suddenly couldn't stay warm. He wanted her hands on him again. He wanted that loss of self again. He wanted more than just a climax; he wanted the fall, he wanted the feeling of being held when he landed.

"Go back to Sam," she commanded. "Finish the job."

"We're always finishing the job," he sighed, looking down.

"It's what you do," she smiled, sadly. "It's what you always do."

_And now the job is going to finish me…_

"Somehow… I think we'll find each other," she continued. "I know that sounds cheesy, but…"

Dean sighed dramatically, looking over the top of the Impala to the deserted road. "And she rode off into the sunset…"

Brenna laughed slightly. "Something like that." She looked over her shoulder as the crazy-heat of the sun slowly faded, the brilliant star tucking itself beneath the horizon in a slow give of power. "We both have someone waiting for us."

Dean nodded, grabbing her wrist as she turned away. She met his eyes one last time and he felt his body react. He let her go, watching as she mounted the bike, turned, and headed back to the truck stop and, supposedly, Virgil.

Dean looked down dust-covered boots. His back burned, his muscles ached, his body was taunt with an unresolved need. Scratching the back of his head with a frustrated hand, he turned and walked around the side of the Impala, tossed the shirt and the jacket that he'd used as a towel when filling up the Impala's radiator into the back seat, climbed behind the wheel, and turned on the car.

The silence mocked him. He could still hear her sigh. He turned on the radio.

_"…got a freight train running through the middle of my head, oh, oh, you cool my desire… ooh, ooh, ooh, I'm on fire…"_

"Friggin' Springsteen," Dean muttered, reaching for the dial.

_"In my life there's been heartache and pain. I don't know if I can face it again. Can't stop now, I've traveled so far to change this lonely life…"_

"The hell?" Dean punched the dial again.

_"…still hear her voice in the wind. I still thing of you in the night. Well, I guess she'll never know how much I need her so…"_

"Are you freakin' kidding me?" Dean yelled, punching the dial again. "What the hell is this, the Universe versus Dean Winchester night?"

_"You must understand this, I've watched you for so long that I feel I've known you, I know it can't be wrong. If we just get together, I want to make you see, I'm dreaming of your sweet love tonight…"_

"Argh!" Dean beat the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. "Shit on a friggin' stick," he growled, turning the volume off and listening to the heady rumble of the Impala. Taking a breath, he caressed her steering wheel, rolling his tender back against the still-warm seat and pulling in her heat, letting it ease the ache in his body.

Pressing the accelerator flat, he reveled in the jolt that slid through his body as the one lady in his life he knew he could count on responded to his touch. Letting his still-dry lips flatten against his teeth as he grinned, he began to belt out his own retaliation back at the universe.

"Oh, baby, you're the only thing in this whole world that's pure and good and right," he sang as he turned on the headlights while the torturous sun gave way to twilight, his voice catching on the wind that whipped past his open window and spilling free into the night. "And wherever you are and wherever you go, there's always gonna be some light…"

www

Sam paced.

It was usually Dean's method of dealing with stress, but he was at the end of his tether to sanity and trapped in Boxcar Willie's spare room with nothing except boxes from his father's past to keep him company.

"Where the hell are you?" He asked aloud for the fiftieth time to the empty room. The opened curtains fluttered limply in the tease of air that skipped in. "This is not happening again, Dean."

He'd stacked the contents of each box in orderly piles, delineated by situation, year, or hunt as near as he could match them to John's journal. He'd translated four of the spells written in Latin. He'd lingered over each photograph, staining several of them with quiet tears unashamedly shed over the loss of a lifetime of memories.

He'd pulled everything he could find that might have anything to do with the Kestrel dagger, and found a few other pieces of information that shed some light on the dagger that Ruby had brought into the mix. He'd all but packed and repacked their clothes, and was about to start cleaning their guns—a duty strictly left to Dean—when his cell phone rang.

He jumped, startled, at the sound. He stared at the read-out for two rings before pulling it together and answering.

"Bobby?!" A crackle answered him. "Bobby! Wait, wait, don't hang up… give me a second to…"

Spinning in the center of the room, Sam tried to think of how to bring the signal in stronger. Darting through the opened door, he checked his bars, yelling Bobby's name into the receiver as the bars grew in strength. On a burst of inspiration, he swung up onto the old ladder in the back of the rail car, making his way to the roof.

"Bobby?"

"Sam! What the hell?"

"Don't ask, man," Sam half-laughed, giddy at hearing the older man's voice clearly. "How you been?"

"Been better," Bobby admitted. "Where the hell are you boys?"

"Pennsylvania."

"Still?"

"Again," Sam said, quickly explaining about the storage unit and a lead that might help Dean. He decided not to go into detail, not convinced that what he planned on doing was exactly… kosher in the good versus evil war.

He didn't exactly care about the line he might be crossing, however. Dean had already crossed a line for him, to save him, and he was not about to let Hell have its way with his brother. He was _going to_ save him. Or die trying.

Because living in this world without his big brother would turn him into someone he wouldn't want to be anyway.

"You still with me, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam cleared his throat, turning to face the direction Dean had driven away more than four hours ago. A train whistle echoed in the distance. "Yeah, I'm here."

"You boys have any, uh…" Sam waited as Bobby searched for the right words. "Aftershocks from that dream root?"

Sam frowned, detecting a small cloud of dust in the distance. He had to press his cell close to his ear to hear Bobby over the noise of the train as it raced passed him. "What do you mean?"

Bobby's sigh was telling. "Bruising, bleeding, insomnia—"

"Oh, shit, Bobby," Sam sat down, hard, unable to believe that they had neglected to call their friend. "Listen, yeah, yeah, we did."

As he continued to talk, he realized the small cloud of dust was growing and from it birthed the shape of the Impala. Relief washed over him, making him dizzy.

"You're saying it's all in my head?" Bobby pressed.

"No, it's real alright, but the wounds are psychosomatic. You believe they're real, so… they're real."

"I'll be a son of a bitch."

"The morning after Dean and I talked about what we'd really seen in his head… the bruises were gone."

"Oh, swell," Bobby groused. "I gotta go find someone and have open and honest hour."

The Impala turned down the road and Sam stood up. "Maybe not," he said to Bobby. "Maybe this was enough."

"Alright, well," Bobby groused. "I'll just click my heels together and tell myself there's no place like home. And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You two be careful, okay? I don't know what you're up to, but I got a call from Ellen."

Sam pulled his attention from the approaching Impala to the phone. "Ellen?"

"You remember Griffin?"

Sam closed his eyes, still tasting the fear and anger from that night in the rain as it ran down the back of his throat. "Yeah, I remember him."

"Well, he's hot after some knife and she said he's in a take-no-prisoners mood."

_Swell_. "Any idea where he is?"

"Ellen just said somewhere in the northeast."

The Impala stopped and Sam nodded. "We'll be careful."

"It's okay to call and say 'hi' once in awhile, you know?" Bobby muttered. "Take care of that brother of yours."

"I will," Sam promised, hanging up as Dean exited the vehicle, moving stiffly. "Decided to come back, did you?"

"Well, as much as I like a good crime scene, it wasn't the same without you," Dean said, closing the door and leaning a hip against the car.

He was hurting, that much Sam could see from his overhead perch, but he was relatively intact.

"Who was that on the phone?"

"Bobby," Sam replied swinging a leg over the top rung of the ladder.

"You tell him to unplug from the Matrix?" Dean moved forward and Sam saw that his jacket, tie, and button-down shirt were gripped in his hand.

"More or less… Dude, what the hell happened to you?"

"I'd tell you, but you'd gloat so damn much you'd be impossible to live with," Dean sighed, moving past him and into the rail car. Sam saw that his T-shirt had stuck to the seeping wounds on his back.

"The car overheated, didn't it?" Sam grinned.

"Shut up," Dean sighed. "Tell me there's at least _beer_ in this sorry excuse for a fridge."

"There is," Sam nodded, following his brother inside.

He took the ruined clothes from Dean's hand, tossing them across one of the two chairs that flanked the card table positioned across from the small refrigerator. Dean opened the door and Sam heard the clink of bottles in the door. Dean's sigh of relief drew another smile from Sam as he slid first one hip, then the other onto the countertop.

"Well," Dean sighed after taking a long pull on the bottle of _Budweiser_. "We got us one freaky-ass case."

Sam narrowed his eyes as Dean reached back blindly for the chair not covered with his ruined clothes. "Dude… you are red."

"I was out in the sun for awhile, Sam," Dean said. "Don't make a big deal about it."

Sam's quick eyes found the marks on his brother's arm—scratch marks. He frowned. There weren't any other bruises on Dean's face…

"Were you in a fight?"

"What? No," Dean took another drink of beer. "Listen, we need to get back into Brookville tomorrow. Talk to that Sherriff guy. Get him to give us whatever he's holding back."

Sam slid off the counter and went for the first aid kit. "What makes you think he's holding something back?"

"Get the scissors, man," Dean sighed, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "I'm not pulling this thing off."

"Okay."

"For one," Dean continued about the hunt. "The bodies are placed where they're found. The people aren't being killed there."

Sam took this in, not even thinking to question how Dean knew this. Dean might not be able to explain what a quadratic equation was, but when it came to street smarts and hunting savvy, there was no one who could match his brother in skills.

He stepped over to Dean, standing in front of him and slid the cool blade of the scissors along his brother's spine, cutting the soiled T-shirt free from his body. Dean hissed as Sam pulled the cotton away from the deeper wounds, and with it not only the gauze bandages but the beginnings of scabs that had finally started to form.

"Sorry," Sam winced.

"Not gonna lie to you," Dean breathed. "Hurts like hell."

"I bet," Sam said, wetting a rag with antiseptic. "You ready?"

"No," Dean muttered, turning so that he straddled the chair, gripping the back of the furniture and giving Sam easy access to the wounds.

"Now?"

"Still no," Dean grumbled. He stiffened and cried out when Sam began to clean away the pus and blood from the edges of the wounds. "Jesus _Christ!_"

"Okay, so not killed where they're found," Sam encouraged, trying to keep his brother talking, keeping him focused on something other than the pain. "Where is he killing them?"

"Beats the holy hell out of me," Dean muttered, teeth clenched. "_Fuck_!"

"I'm trying to take it easy," Sam informed him, wincing as he cleaned another of the small, meaty wounds. "You're not exactly holding still. Good thing I'm not giving you a tattoo or something. You'd end up with a freaky-assed design."

Dean chuckled, then stilled.

"Dean?"

"Y'know," Dean said straightening, his sun-burned profile turning to catch Sam's eyes. "That's not a bad idea."

"Dude," Sam stepped back. "I so draw the line at tattooing you."

"Not you, dumbass," Dean stood, grabbing his sliced-up T-shirt and wiping the sweat streaks from his chest. His amulet bounced against his breastbone. "Getting tattoos."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "I think you have heatstroke."

Dean frowned and reached for Sam's shirt collar. Sam flinched back before he realized that Dean was going for the charm Bobby had give them to ward off possession.

"We keep wearing these charms, why not make it permanent?"

Sam blinked. He opened his mouth to protest, closed it and blinked again.

Dean spread his arms out in a _tell me why this isn't a good idea_ gesture.

"Huh," Sam said finally. "Where did you come up with _that_?"

Dean flinched then turned away, his exposed back reminding Sam that his job wasn't done. He pushed his brother back into the chair and started applying ointment on the red sores.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" Dean answered, jaw tight as he fought against the urge to cry out once more.

"It's a good idea," Sam relented. "Just not something I thought I'd ever hear from you."

"Well, if we're seriously gonna use that knife against any demons, I'd rather have something other than a—ow, _damn_, man!—can of spray paint and a shotgun full of rock salt to keep it from getting all up inside me, as Bobby says."

"Got any idea where we go?"

"None," Dean said, dropping his forehead on his folded arms, drawing Sam's eyes to the bend in his neck.

Sam continued to bandage his brother's back, thinking. The only person he knew in recent memory that was tattooed had been that demon Casey. Well, the demon and Brenna Kavanagh, of course, but she wasn't—

Sam stopped, looking at the scratches on his brother's biceps, thinking about the gap of time between Dean's departure and his return.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"Anything else happen in Toby?"

"Like what?"

"Dunno," Sam shrugged, tapping Dean's shoulder to indicate he was finished. "Anything."

Dean shook his head as he stood. He flipped the chair back around and went to the fridge once more. "Highlight of the day was getting shown up by my little brother and having to get radiator fluid for my car."

Dean plucked another beer from the fridge, running the cold glass across his forehead before positioning the cap on the edge of the counter and smacking it free of the bottle with one sure hit.

"Okay," Sam nodded, turning away and digging into his bag of clothes.

He knew Dean better than anyone. He knew when he was hurting, and when he was hiding. Something happened while Dean was gone, something he suspected involved a certain red-headed druid. But from the set of Dean's shoulders, now was apparently not the time to talk about it.

_From the look of those scratches, whatever it was didn't go well_, Sam thought, grabbing a clean shirt from the bag. _Or… it went a little… too well._

Without warning, the memory of his illicit dream of Bela sprang to his memory and Sam shook slightly with the impact of imagined sensations. "I'm gonna grab a shower."

"Fine," Dean nodded. "Then I say we head into Brookville, check out the first crime scene."

"Fine," Sam replied, realizing only when the spray of the putrid-smelling well water hit his face that he'd forgotten to tell his brother about Bobby's warning of Griffin.

www

"You're right," Sam said softly as they played the beams of their flashlights—both having remembered to bring one this time—over the empty alley of the first crime scene. "There's no way someone bled out here."

"Plus, look at the position of these posts," Dean said from behind him. "He put them there for a reason. He needs them to be facing one another."

"Yeah, but… why?"

Dean switched off his light and stepped into the circular glow of Sam's. "Let's do it by the numbers."

Sam raised a brow. "Dean, your version of doing it by the numbers is paper, rock, scissors."

Dean crossed his arms and Sam heard his swift intake of breath just before he uncrossed them once more, resting his hands on his hips. "Fine, so I got that from an episode of CSI. My point is, let's break it down."

Sam nodded and they moved toward the entrance of the alley, guided by Sam's flashlight. "The deaths occur in pairs, the pairs are connected somehow. If he's using the Kestrel dagger, there is something about the souls of the pairs that is important."

"Or maybe it's not their souls, so much as their connection. I mean, they're people. They have souls," Dean pointed out. "That's not so unusual. But… mother and daughter? Siblings? Lovers? That's unique-ish."

"Good point," Sam conceded. "Okay, so he needs the connection… but… how does he… feed off of it? What does that give him?"

Dean sighed. "I don't know, but I think _not_ getting it is what is turning this into the hottest autumn on record."

"Gonna have to agree with you there," Sam said, puffing his T-shirt from his sticky chest rapidly to try to create a breeze. Dean squashed his attempt by slapping a hand across his chest. "Hey!" Sam protested.

"Eyes front, Sammy," Dean ordered, a grin plain in his voice. "We are go for tattoo's."

"What?" Sam looked in the direction Dean indicated, seeing a neon sign that read _Cadillac Jack's Ink Emporium._ "Seriously?"

"Having second thoughts?" Dean challenged, already starting to cross the empty street.

"Well, no, but—"

"C'mon, little brother. I won't let the big biker dudes molest you," Dean teased over his shoulder.

"Jerk," Sam grumbled, flicking off his flashlight and jogging after him.

They were the only two in the store at this hour of the night, and it took some convincing for Cadillac Jack to agree to two tattoos, but when Dean sketched out the sigil, explaining they wanted it for protection, Jack's thick, gray handlebar mustache twitched with curiosity and they were in.

"Want me to hold your hand?" Dean asked, eyes dancing.

"Bite me, dude," Sam grumbled. "I don't know why you're so excited about this. We're getting needles stuck into our flesh."

Dean shrugged. "Not much different than any other Saturday night."

Jack lifted a brow, but didn't speak.

"Why do I have to go first?" Sam heard himself whine. _Once a little brother, always a little brother._

"Because I'm an awesome brother," Dean said, swinging a leg over the seat of a chair and resting his chin on the back rest. His sunburn had faded somewhat from garish pink to simply rose-colored glow and his eyes were alight with the excitement of someone sneaking out past curfew for the first time.

Sam almost chuckled as he removed his shirt per Jack's instructions, then held still as the artist pressed the outline of the sigil on his upper left peck. Dean looked happier than he'd seen him since—

"Ow!"

"Hold still, Sammy."

"_You_ hold still," Sam grumbled, watching as Jack's needle carefully traced the outline of the protective emblem. The tiny needle darted into his skin so quickly Sam couldn't see the motion, but he felt the pinch of each insertion.

After several minutes, though, his skin seemed to go slightly numb, spiking with a tiny, tight pain again when Jack started to fill in the black, constantly wiping away the blood brought forth by the needle's intrusion. It took less time than Sam thought it would. As Jack finished, he patted the design one last time, covering the whole thing with ointment and instructing Sam to grease it up every so often over the next several days.

"Don't pick the scabs," Dean said, standing and preparing to change places with Sam.

"What are you, five?" Sam tossed back, but couldn't help but grin. "How are you going to sit back in that chair with your back messed up like it is?"

"Huh," Dean frowned. "Good point. Jack? Suggestions?"

Jack shrugged, flipped a padded, black tattoo chair around, then shoved the backrest down so that Dean could straddle it and lean forward without actually leaning _on_ Jack.

"Situation solved," Dean said, wincing as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Sam watched his brother remain stoic and still as the sigil was branded by ink into his upper left peck. It was always startling for him to see Dean's bare chest, the scars there a testament to a life hard won.

Jack applied loose gauze patches over their new body art and they pulled their shirts back on before paying the man. Dean bantered with Jack for a moment before they left the parlor, the neon light flicking off behind them.

"Heh, we got inked," Dean chuckled as they walked down the street back in the direction of where they left the Impala. "That's awesome. Gotta say, that's something I didn't see happening."

The street was empty and dark, save the alternating red, green, and yellow glow of the traffic lights, and the halo of light from the staggered street lights. Sam grinned widely, bounced a shoulder against his brother, good naturedly jostling him toward the shadowed entrance of an alley.

"Well, it was certainly a different way to kill time. Next thing you know, we'll be—"

His words were stolen by the night as a figure swept from the alley, slamming into Dean's wounded back and shoving him face-first against the brick wall of the nearest building.

"Hey!"

Shaking off the shock of seeing his brother's legs disappear from under him, Sam rushed forward. The looming figure halted his advance with a well-placed elbow to the cheek.

Sam fell back, a hand at his face, spitting blood from where he'd bitten into his tongue upon impact. He looked up blearily to see Dean being turned around roughly, held against the brick wall by the formidable arm of their attacker, the point of a dagger glinting off of the street light and bending the vulnerable flesh at the base of Dean's throat.

"Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde," the man growled.

Sam struggled to his knees, working to blink his vision clear.

"You want him dead, by all means, keep moving forward," Sam heard the man say, his face inches from Dean's.

Sam froze. "What do you want?"

"Kid, there are so many answers to that question, I wouldn't know where to start."

Sam felt his lip curl in anger. "What do you want with _us_?"

"I want," the man said, pressing the knife a little deeper, causing Dean to breathe in sharply, "you to go away."

In that moment, Sam knew he wasn't going to be fast enough.

* * *

a/n: More to come the week after Christmas.

I wanted to share with ya'll the link to the downloadable version of an awesome vid by **LSktech42**. She made it for me after I completed _In the Light_. *grins* Thanks, girl!

Please to enjoy: http:// www .4shared .com/ file/ 75294456/55a0094a/ Supernatural-_Thunderstruck .html

(remember to remove the spaces)

Playlist:

_Black_ by Pearl Jam

_I'm on Fire_ by Bruce Springsteen

_I Want to Know What Love Is_ by Foreigner

_The Ballad of Jayne_ by L.A. Guns

_Let Me Take You Home Tonight_ by Boston

_Bat Out of Hell_ by Meatloaf (Kelly, that one is for you)

Translations:

_Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde. _Beware the anger of a patient man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1. _**Please note**_**: There is a mature scene later in this chapter, and some violence/mature situations in the coming chapters. I don't believe anything I've written is offensive, but I wanted to offer you fair warning.**

**a/n**: I know I said the week after Christmas, and I had every intention to get this out that week… but, I had my country's 500th anniversary to plan, my wife to murder, and Gilder to frame for it. I was swamped. (cookies to anyone who gets the movie reference)

Seriously, though, while the Holidays did take more of my attention than I'd originally planned, this story and you guys were in the back of my mind the whole time. I hope you enjoy what's to come as the next few chapters are ones I've been excited about writing since this story first planted its seed in my imagination. Thank you for sticking with me!

**Note:** There are references to past encounters with the brothers and the hunter, Griffin. I've tried to do it so that this story is as self-contained as possible, but if you're confused or curious, I'm referring to my one-shot zine story, _Raincheck_.

Kelly, I've said it before, but I mean it each time: I wouldn't want to write fanfiction without your help. T, no pressure, but your approval gives me the strength I need to move forward. SJ, sweetie, you keep me grinning.

* * *

_Don't give me up. Don't give me up tonight. Or soon nothing will be right at all… salvation… will you find out who you are too late to change?_

_Every Little Thing, Dishwalla_

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The impact against his wounded back sent Dean's senses spiraling through a star-studded tunnel of gray, his breath escaping in one harsh rush. In a confusing mix of motion, he felt the side of his face brush against the sandpaper like texture of what seemed to be a brick wall, then he was turned and pressed back harshly, his vision swimming as he fought to keep his feet.

With one surprised swallow, he felt the unmistakable point of a knife against the exposed hollow of his throat and his vision snapped to immediate and extreme clarity.

Darkness shadowed the man in front of him, but Dean saw clearly by the haloed edge of street lights that his brother was on the ground, his hand at his face.

_Oh, _hell_ no…_

"Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde," the man holding Dean against the wall growled.

Dean watched Sam struggle shakily to his knees.

"You want him dead, by all means, keep moving forward." The scent of old tobacco on the man's breath was nauseating, and Dean blinked quickly to relieve his burning eyes.

"What do you want?" Sam asked.

_Atta boy, _Dean thought, carefully easing his hands up from where they'd been bracing his bruised body against the wall.

"Kid, there are so many answers to that question, I wouldn't know where to start."

Mentally, Dean frowned. He knew this voice. There was something familiar about the accent, the arrogant spin of words…

"What do you want with _us_?" Sam's irritation was evident in his tone.

Dean's lips quirked in appreciation. The man's knife pressed deeper. Dean instinctively sucked in a breath, trying ineffectually to scoop his skin from the point of the blade.

"I want you to go away."

From the moment he could hold a gun level without the barrel trembling from the weight, Dean had been most at peace around instruments of death. He knew their strengths and their weaknesses. He knew weapons better than he knew himself.

He knew by the curve of the blade against his throat which way to move so as to keep his pretty head attached to his shoulders. The moment he shifted, bringing his arm up to slam into the inside of his attacker's elbow and collapsing his arm, Dean realized by the unexpected flash of light sliding across the man's eyes that his attacker knew it, too.

"Dean!"

Sam's bark of alarm was lost in a red haze as Dean's whole world narrowed to the space of the alley between the buildings. With a grunt of effort, Dean followed the thrust of his palm with a harsh slam of his elbow and heard the knife hit the ground. The man used his now-empty hand to belt Dean squarely in the jaw, gripping his jacket in an attempt to gain leverage.

Using surprise as his ally and pain as an enforcer, Dean pushed away from the wall, his wounded back screaming in protest, and shoved the man into the opposite wall. The neon light from the tattoo parlor across the street cast psychedelic shadows of green and blue across the man's face, only serving to enhance his ferocious scowl.

"You son of a bitch," Dean gasped, pushing away and taking a step back, his face tight with a cocktail of anger and pain.

"Holy, shit," Sam breathed, pushing himself to his feet, the cast-off knife in his grip. "Griffin."

Panting, the surly hunter nodded at Sam, but kept his eyes on Dean. "Boys."

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?" Dean demanded, reaching up to gently probe the throbbing skin of his new tattoo.

"I could ask you the same question," Griffin pointed out, squaring his shoulders and tugging his long canvas slicker straight.

Without looking at his brother, Dean held out his hand, immediately feeling the satisfying weight of Griffin's knife in his palm. He expertly spun the blade first toward then away from him, displaying both knowledge and dexterity. He watched with pleasure as the realization that Dean knew what the hell he was doing with the knife registered with dark appreciation on Griffin's face.

"I asked you first," Dean replied.

Griffin's dark eyes slid from Dean to Sam. He licked his lips, then glanced out to the darkened, empty street. Dean saw the long scar that ran down the length of the man's face and hefted the knife in his hand. He'd felt the burn of a knife's blade many times. Scars like that one were caused by anger, and Dean felt a small stab of pity for the hunter.

"I'm looking for a guy," Griffin replied.

Dean turned his lips down, his eyebrow raising. "And here I took you for one of us."

Sam tapped him with an elbow.

Griffin's scowl deepened, digging lines of irritation around his mouth. "A wizard," he clarified.

"Oh, I see," Dean bobbed his head. "You got a thing for wands and capes, that it?"

"Dean," Sam warned.

"Look," Griffin whirled, pointing a finger at Dean, his eyes snapping with barely-concealed frustration. "You and me, we both got jobs to do. I stay outta your way, you stay outta mine."

Dean schooled his face, keeping his expression blank. "You were the one that jumped us, Hoss. You want us out of your way, there's better ways to do it."

Griffin stared at him, his expression unreadable. Dean stared back. He felt Sam tense next to him, felt the slam of his heart against the same point in his throat where Griffin's knife had pressed, felt himself ease into the moment, waiting.

"Not smart to mess with me, boy," Griffin said, lifting his lip in a snarl. "I've killed enough evil sonsabitches to know how to do it without leaving anything behind."

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck came to attention. "Well, since we're pullin' them out and measuring—"

"Hey, guys," Sam interrupted. "This going someplace or what?"

After a pause, Griffin asked, "You notice how it's not exactly autumn weather 'round here, Winchester?"

"Did seem a little warm." Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, well," Griffin looked at Sam, then back to Dean. "The wizard I'm after, he's the reason. He's not… normal."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Hear that, Sam? He's after an _abnormal_ wizard."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked Griffin, a base on the acid of antagonistic humor Dean was building. "Is it some kind of spell?"

Griffin shook his head. "Not exactly. He… feeds. On a cycle. And if he doesn't get fed, the place heats up."

Dean caught Sam's glance of disbelief, but said nothing. Sam was better at the Q&A. And just the sight of the burly hunter left a bad taste in Dean's mouth.

"Feeds on what?"

Griffin narrowed his eyes, peering closer at Sam. "You know something."

"Maybe," Sam hedged. "Don't think we're quite at the _I'll show you mine, you show me yours_ stage."

Dean grinned.

"Ni dhiolann dearmad fiacha," Griffin spat.

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean shot back.

Griffin stepped forward, threatening. Dean subtly lifted the blade of the knife, catching the silver in the street light.

"A debt is still unpaid, even if forgotten," Griffin replied.

Dean felt anger surge, hot and ready. He gripped the knife. "What. Debt." He ground the words through teeth clenched in restraint.

Griffin stepped forward once more, his chest touching Dean's, his face a breath away. "You took my revenge, took my kill."

Dean stood firm, acutely aware of Sam's proximity to this man. The memory of their last encounter with the hunter was like a sudden weight in his head and he wanted desperately to shove Sam in that vault, spin the lock and hide him inside.

"You crazy bastard, we saved your worthless hide!" Dean snarled, tendons standing out in his neck as he resisted the urge to push Griffin away. He wasn't about to give the man the satisfaction of reaction. "You almost got my brother killed!"

"Your _brother_ killed the dearthair!" Griffin thrust two fingers, hard, into the hollow of Dean's shoulder, just above the fresh tattoo.

Dean grunted as fire shot across the skin on his chest. "You're fuckin' crazy, man."

"The spirit killed my brother," Griffin went on, poking Dean once more, backing him up a step. "And it was _my _kill."

"Wrong."

Sam's voice, deep, hard, an edge to it that Dean had only heard a handful of times in his life, slapped against the tension that spanned the space between Griffin and Dean. Griffin pulled back slightly.

"What was that?"

"I said, you're wrong," Sam repeated, pivoting so that instead of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean, he now faced the two hunters, creating a triangle of bodies.

Dean barely breathed, the anticipation of blows hanging tensely on a cusp of air. He shifted to better see Sam in the shadows of the night, feeling his boot tip off the shallow, broken cement walk into the dirt of the alley floor.

"Say that one more time," Griffin challenged.

Sam smiled. There was no humor in it, and the light in his brother's eyes was laced with danger, but the smile was there. And it worried Dean more than the intentions of the big hunter.

"_You_ killed your brother," Sam calmly reminded the man. "The dearthair may have attacked him, but you're the one who killed him." The righteous tone of Sam's voice was unmistakable: _don't think we're gonna forget that._

"You son of a bitch," Griffin growled, his entire body telegraphing the punch he attempted to throw at Sam's face.

"Hey!" Dean barked as his arm flashed out, gripping the hunter's coat sleeve and twisting his arm down.

Griffin, however, was beyond reason. Sam's reminder, his smug expression, his entire demeanor seemed to push the older hunter over the edge and it was all Dean could do to restrain him. Dean dropped the large knife, the blade sticking loosely in the dirt, and shoved Griffin up against the wall. The hunter pushed back, fisting Dean's shirt in his fingers and shaking him slightly.

In the space of a heartbeat, tempers skyrocketed and Dean once more lost focus of everything but dodging the hammer-like fists aimed with worrisome accuracy at his face while planting sharp jabs and thrusts into the soft flesh of Griffin's middle and sides.

He didn't notice exactly when Sam joined the fray, but he soon realized that they were in the middle of a near-silent brawl, cloaked only by the opaque shadows cast by the old brick buildings they'd sequestered themselves between.

A _bwap_of sound pulled all three up short. Panting, the hunters turned to the opening, slinking further back in the shadows as a police cruiser passed slowly, shining a light along the darkened storefronts and down the alley. Dean inched his toes from the edge of the light's beam, his back bumping into Sam's front as they waited for the danger to pass.

"You two," Griffin panted. "Leave town."

Dean spat blood and saliva to his left, dragging a dirty hand across his mouth. "Hell with that," he said. "We got a job to do."

"Just stay outta my way," Griffin ordered. "There's too many hunters in this town as it is." He bent and picked up his discarded knife, sliding it back into the hidden sheath along his boot, beneath his denim pant cuff.

"Too many?" Sam asked, picking up on an inference Dean had missed.

Smoothing his black hair away from his face, the swarthy hunter looked at Sam with chagrin. "That damn red-head and her damn knife… telling me she can help me find the wizard… I don't _need_ any help."

Dean froze as Griffin continued to speak.

"Not this time. I made that mistake once before, and I ain't getting no more blood on my hands that I didn't put there myself."

"We'll do our job," Sam informed him. "And if that has something to do with your wizard," he shrugged, "we're not gonna let that stop us."

Griffin spat. Resting his hands on his hips, he looked first at Sam, then at Dean, leveling his eyes. "This is _my_ hunt, Winchester. Keep that in mind."

Dean raised a brow. "You heard my brother."

Curling his lip in a snarl, Griffin pushed past them, heading for the opening with a tense rolling gait that spoke trouble for anyone who tangled with him. The brothers watched him walk away, then turned to face each other. Dean reached up and tipped Sam's face to the side with a finger to his chin. In the neon light, he could see a bruise already rising where Griffin's elbow had caught Sam's cheek.

"Gonna have a pretty shiner there, Mr. FBI Agent."

Sam touched the bruise tenderly with the pads of his fingers. "Yeah, well, you look like you kissed a lawn mower."

Dean grimaced, touching the tip of his tongue to a cut at the corner of his mouth. "What a bastard, huh?"

Sam nodded. "C'mon," he said tiredly. "Let's get out of here."

They stepped from the alley, instinctively glancing both ways for any potential witnesses, then walked in step toward the Impala, both caught up in their own thoughts. Dean couldn't stop himself from replaying the fight in his mind, thinking about everything he could have done differently, thinking about the information he _should have_ gotten from Griffin.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam probed the silence with forced casualness.

"Hmm?"

"Who do you think the red head is?"

www

Virgil hadn't waited for her this time.

When she returned to the diner, his truck was gone. For one brief moment, she felt a flash of relief, replaced swiftly by regret. As the gut-check moment subsided, Brenna realized that he wouldn't have gone far. Virge was as dependable as the night. She knew it was unfair of her to continue to take him for granted, but she was caught between what he wanted from her and knowing that if she gave it to him, everything she was holding on to so tightly—her freedom, her identity, the safety she felt in the solitude of keeping herself away from a real connection—would disappear.

She wasn't ready for him to be gone from her life, but she couldn't bring herself to ask him to stay.

She took her time heading back to the Milton, driving around until all that was left of the sun was a liquid shimmer of light edging the horizon, hoping that the wind and road would free her of Dean by the time she walked through the hotel room door. The cool air of the A/C hit her and her skin drank in the relief. The doors that separated their adjoining rooms were open, and she could see Virgil stretched out on his bed, his red baseball cap tipped down over his eyes, chest rising and falling gently.

For one heady moment she considered crossing that threshold. She took two hesitant steps across the hotel room, approaching his door, then caught sight of her own reflection in the large mirror above the flat-topped dresser, and stared.

Dean was everywhere on her.

Like an after-image on a photograph, his touch had burned into her and she knew she couldn't shake herself hard enough to get rid of it. She could still smell the tangy sweat from his warm skin, feel the rash of stubble scrape across her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she reached up to touch the base of her throat, feeling her heart hammering against the delicate skin there.

Opening her eyes, she startled at the unexpected sight of Virgil standing in the doorway between their rooms. His bright blue eyes held hers, sad and knowing.

"I'm… tired," Brenna said, her voice ragged with unrealized need. "I'm gonna turn in."

"Have you eaten?" Virgil asked.

"Not hungry."

Virgil simply nodded, turning back to his room. He paused, half-turning to her. "Y'know… the day's gonna come for you to make a choice, Bren."

She nodded, though he wasn't looking directly at her. She didn't trust her voice.

"I'll check on you later," Virgil said softly, pulling the adjoining door nearly closed as he stepped into his room. Brenna heard his radio click on, Johnny Cash's ancient, mournful voice lamenting through the clarity of age.

"_What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away in the end…"_

Brenna rubbed her face, suddenly too tired to do more than shuck her boots and jeans. Tossing her jeans across the back of the chair—she wasn't to the _drop them on the floor in a pile_ stage quite yet—she adjusted her panties, frowning at their seemingly intolerable constriction, and crawled to the head of the bed, relishing the feel of the cool sheets on her flushed skin.

_Someday… we should really think about doing this in a nice, big bed. _The memory of her own voice taunting her, Brenna rolled over with a frustrated groan, pulling one of the pillows from the assortment over her head, pressing it close, smothering her ridiculous conscience.

"What was I thinking?" she muttered to herself, her voice muffled by the down-filled cotton. "Why did I push him away? Because he gets around?" It wasn't as if she didn't have her own chances. _Hell, all I have to do is walk in the next room…_

"What if I can't find him again? What if that was my last chance? What if he's just… gone…"

Flipping over once more, Brenna tossed the pillow to the floor and stared at the ceiling. _Stop it stop it stop it…_ So many nights she'd been afraid to sleep because of the violence that visited her in her dreams—the sight denied to her with the touch of another slammed into her with unrelenting force when she slept. And all she saw was blood and knives and the terrified, fearful eyes of the sufferer and the witness.

Now, however, she was afraid that if she closed her eyes, if she gave in to the beckoning call of oblivion, Dean would be waiting for her on the other side. Dean and his guarded eyes, once so open to her. Dean and his scars. Dean and his mouth. His hands, his tongue, his…

"Stop it stop it stop it!" she said aloud.

"Brenna?" Virgil called.

"_If I could start again a million miles away I would keep myself, I would find a way..."_

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Go to sleep, Virge."

Taking a deep breath, Brenna forced herself to close her eyes, using a calming technique she had perfected in her youth when she'd been unable to shut out the world and its sensations. Toes, sinking. Feet, sinking. Ankles, sinking. Legs, sinking. By the time she mentally reached her shoulders, her breath was slow, deep, drowsy. She rolled into sleep thankfully, needing the release it could offer her.

The dream began with a stark clarity unlike the others. She smelled the wet earth, felt it squish beneath her feet. Looking around, she didn't recognize her surroundings, seeing only darkness and mud.

"Dean?"

She jerked, looking to her right, and let out a startled cry at the sight of Sam Winchester, lurching forward, a hand grasping a dislocated shoulder. She'd never heard the voices in her dreams before, but she heard his now. Heard the hope and relief and _oh, thank God_ and _he's here he's here he's here_ in it.

"Sam!"

Brenna stumbled back at the sound of Dean's voice, looking wildly to her left, unable to see him, yearning to do so, just once more. The smell of blood warned her, but she was unable to warn _him_. Turning once more she saw, as she knew she would, the flash of a knife reflecting from a hidden source of light, the dagger long, the edge studded with diamonds, the hilt dangerously beautiful.

Before she could even cry out in denial, the blade was shoved into Sam's back, felling the hunter, his eyes clouding with pain and disbelief seconds before the image of his brother appeared, catching him as he fell, holding him, rocking him, soothing him.

"No," Brenna breathed. "No, this isn't right. This isn't it."

She could hear Dean's voice; hear the tremble, the resistance, the denial. She couldn't discern his words, but the pain in them sliced into her. She felt the sting on her arms, her torso, her belly. Looking down at her body, she saw the shocking brilliance of blood quickly covering her, and she sobbed, once.

"SAM!" Dean's cry stabbed into her and she bent from the pain of it, her eyes lifting to find him, searching for him as her heart had been for the last two years. His back to her, he held his limp brother in his arms, shaking him, shaking them, shaking.

"No," Brenna cried out. "No, this isn't _right!"_

As if she'd said the words aloud, the sound of her voice yanked her harshly from sleep. Sweat matted her hair to the sides of her face, running in tear-like rivers from her forehead to her eyes.

"Brenna?"

Virgil's voice sought her in the darkness and she pushed upright in bed, shoving her heels into the tangle of sheets until she bumped the headboard with her back, her hands laid flat as if they were still bleeding.

"It's okay, Bren," Virgil soothed, "it's just a dream."

"This was different," she whispered, her voice shaking along with the tremble of her body, raspy with the edges of tears. "This was… wrong."

"Easy, honey," Virgil continued, edging closer. "It's going to be okay. We'll figure it out, okay?"

Brenna swallowed, trying to steady her breathing, unable to shake the images that had crawled inside of her as if she'd been… as if she'd been _touching_ someone. As if she'd been touching one of the brothers. _Dean…_

"Let me just turn on the light here, okay?"

"No!" Brenna tried, but was too late.

Virgil flicked on the lamp next to her king-sized bed, easing a hip on the opposite side from where she sat scrunched up against the headboard. She saw him see her, saw him instinctively flinch away.

"Holy, shit… what… what's going on with your eyes?" he asked, frank horror in his voice.

Nausea hit her like a tidal wave and she launched from the bed to her bathroom in a second. She was sick in the sink, unable to lift the lid of the toilet in time. Trembling, sweating, she turned on the water to wash the evidence of her dream down the drain. Bracing her hands on the cold edge of porcelain, she raised her face to meet her own reflection.

Her eyes had physically widened, the oddly-colored gold irises large and predatory, like that of a bird of prey. She hadn't seen herself like this in quite some time. She knew Virgil had never seen it.

"Brenna?"

"I-I think my… my sight," she tried, clearing her burning throat. "I think… I think it's coming back."

"Oh." Virgil's reply was that of someone who had been left standing alone in a once-crowded room. "That's… good, right?"

"I don't know," Brenna whispered. "God help me, I don't know."

Splashing water on her face, she registered one thing clearly: someday wasn't good enough. Dean had been right. She had to find him.

www

He'd found the cavern 25 years ago. After his first harvest.

The mine had been closed for years, the miners and the owners simply walking away, boarding up the entrance, never to return. When they were children, Lane had teased him about the mine shaft being haunted, daring him to enter, daring him to cross just one more line, take one more step. It wasn't until Lane was gone that he'd fully embraced the idea of exploring the mine.

Rail cars that brought the ore from the depths of the earth to the light of the day were still and silent on cobweb and rust-covered tracks. A room for the miners' equipment had been left, fully stocked with picks, lighted helmets, canned food, small burners for cooking food. Another room with bunks had even held some mementos from the miners themselves—love letters, diaries, bank books.

He'd kept them all, each week delving deeper into the cloistered recesses of the earth, the tomb-like darkness wrapping around him like a lover's embrace. He felt closer to Lane the deeper he went, picturing him lying, peaceful, in the confines of the coffin, the earth cradling him.

It was in the mine shaft that he first accepted the fact that Lane wasn't returning of his own accord. It was here that he first spoke aloud his love for his brother, love that most would say was immoral, unnatural, a sin. But in the dark, in the quiet, he could say it aloud, he could be honest, he could mourn as a lover would mourn, as a soul mate would mourn.

It was here that he attempted his first act of magic. It was here that he made his first kill. And it was here that he'd found the knife.

At first, he wasn't aware what he had. He thought only that he'd found a treasure, a fortune. It wasn't until much later that he realized he'd found the reason the mine closed. That he'd found a possible avenue for returning Lane to him. A way to live long enough that he could bring Lane back.

The connection was hidden not far from where he'd found the knife. It was an ancient paper, folded and pressed between the pages of a journal, tucked up in a make-shift pocket sewn to the underside of a dilapidated cot. Written in a language he'd never seen, by a hand that had apparently trembled, the script detailed a spell, a ceremony, the slices, the connection, the necessary elements to breathe in the souls, to add their energy to his own, to live forever.

The first time was awkward.

In his profession, he was accustomed to using a much smaller blade. The weight of the knife bent his weak wrists and it slipped from nervous fingers. He hadn't thought to gag them, and their cries, pleas, reassurances to the other were distracting. He'd not expected the rush, the bone-crushing pleasure, the heat of the souls seeping into his. He'd not been ready, and he felt himself release as he only had before with Lane.

Afterwards, he wept. Kneeling in the pool of blood spilled only from the woman, not from her lover, he cried out his loneliness, his need of a connection like theirs, his loss of a soul mate.

And then… he was ravenous. He needed more. He had to be satiated. The spell talked of six, but he thought that couldn't possibly be enough. It would never be enough. And yet, it was. He finished the six, hiding in plain sight, searching for a cove, a harbor, a hiding place.

He found it in the mine, in a pocket of earth built for just this purpose, he was certain. It was tall enough that he could reach his hand above his head and not hope to touch the top. He could cross from one side to the other in 20 paces. It was perfect. He knew he'd have to be careful—eventually, someone would suspect if he were perpetually twenty-six. He'd live in the shadows. Protected by night in the earth that became his home.

It wasn't until much later, until he was mid-way through the third harvest of his elongated lifetime, that he realized he'd held the power to return Lane in his hands all these many years. The very thing that kept him breathing, kept him of this world, could bring his brother back to him.

The dagger.

And now he only needed two more for this harvest. Two more and he'd have enough power. Two more would stop time for him long enough. Just long enough to stay Adoamros.

"Adoamros," he whispered to himself, sliding the diamond-encrusted blade from the soft suede sheath.

Candles burned, mounted on melted wax from years of burning, surrounding his cavern with a soft, deceptively innocent glow. The dirt floor was stained black with the blood of his sacrifices; his bed was a collection of discarded quilts curtained off from the altar of his own creation.

"I am _Adoamros._"

He smiled to himself, feeling his lips stretch across his teeth.

"I am forever."

www

They'd both been awake for awhile, neither inclined to move just yet. Outside, the sound of the third train to pass in an hour echoed through the still morning. Inside, water dripped rhythmically from the faucet in the small kitchen. Sam lay on the narrow bed in the equally narrow bedroom, staring sightlessly through the doorway toward the fold-out couch where Dean lay curled on his side, staring back.

"You're quiet." Dean's comment rolled out in a sleep-rough voice.

Sam sighed. He wasn't the one who made the noise in their family. That would be Dean's job. His being quiet wasn't all that unusual. But he knew Dean felt the difference, the quiet that was simply being versus the quiet of words intentionally left unspoken.

"Just thinking."

"'Bout what?"

"Secrets."

"Jesus, Sam, I told you she—"

"No, it's okay," Sam interrupted. They lay in the dark of the early morning, neither having slept much through the night, the space between the fold-out couch and the bedroom not too great that silhouettes couldn't be seen and weighted sighs couldn't be heard. "I get it, man."

"I was going to tell you."

"I know," Sam reassured his brother, wanting to rid Dean's voice of the plea that sat on the edge of falling into his tone. The plea that said _trust me believe me know me._ "Just like I was going to tell you about Griffin."

"Well, that's a little different."

"Is it?"

"Yeah, I mean, it was just something Bobby said, right? Not like you saw the guy."

"True," Sam agreed. "You're right. You win. Your secret was worse."

"Shuddup," Dean huffed, rolling over on the couch with a swallowed groan of discomfort.

"Back hurting you?" Sam asked, regarding the outline of his brother as the gray light of dawn filtered through the semi-transparent curtains in the living area.

"Hell yeah," Dean muttered, slowly pushing himself upright. "Doesn't help that I slept on some support bar," he groused. "Next time, you get the couch."

"I won't fit."

"How is that my problem?" Dean snapped, standing.

Sam heard the crack of joints as his brother stretched his arms carefully over his head. He winced in sympathy as the discomfort of pulling the wounded skin on his back taut skittered across Dean's features.

"Coffee? Or shower?" Sam asked, swinging his legs off of the bed.

"I can't have both?"

"Not at the same time."

"Kill joy."

Sam ducked slightly through the narrow doorway and met his brother in the tiny galley kitchen. They regarded each other ruefully for a moment, eyes automatically tracking to the sunburst sigil now permanently inked into their skin, providing a guarantee that no evil would take over their bodies, controlling them from the inside out. There was only what _they_ chose, what _they_ decided.

"Yours hurt?" Dean asked.

"It's a little sore." Sam pressed his fingertips into the hollow of his shoulder, tentatively rotating it to feel the skin pull. "Nothing I haven't felt before."

"Yeah." Dean nodded.

Then sighed. Then leaned a hip against the counter. Classic signs of Dean Winchester Angst, or as close as he ever treaded to that line.

"What?"

"I gotta find her, Sam."

"Why?" Sam felt stomach tense at the vulnerability he heard in his brother's voice.

"Griffin said she could help him, said she knew about the knife."

Sam waited, watching as Dean worried his bottom lip, his shirt off, exposing both the tat and the edges of bruises from his back, his jeans resting loose on narrow hips, his hair as disheveled as sleep ever got it, his jaw line scruffy.

He looked both young and dangerous.

Sam knew that, though similarly attired, he just looked young. The only time he'd looked dangerous, he'd been possessed. Not exactly a confidence builder.

"She could have been telling him what he wanted to hear," Sam pointed out. "She could have seen what he was after, if she touched him."

"No," Dean shook his head. "She… doesn't have that, whatever it was, anymore."

Sam frowned, leaning back to rest his pockets on the edge of the table, his hands hanging loose between his knees as he watched his brother. "What do you mean, she doesn't have it?"

Dean lifted a shoulder, his eyes on the white and black checkered tile covering the kitchen floor. "She said she lost it sometime after Declan died—after we left. Woke up one morning and it was gone."

"So… she touched you and…"

Dean looked at him. "Nothing."

"You didn't… spaz out?"

Dean straightened, his expression indignant. "I never… _spazzed out_."

"She could knock you unconscious with a touch, Dean."

"Only because I was usually part-way there anyway," Dean argued.

Sam tipped his head. "Okay. Good point."

"Anyway," Dean turned and reached for the coffee maker. "The point is, she knew about the knife, and the guy who has it. She _also_ knew that Griffin was after the wizard guy… or after the knife, I can't tell."

"So?" Sam probed, wincing at the sight of his brother's bruised back. Most of the sores were closing, yellowish-purple edging the break in the skin. Two up by his right shoulder, however, looked wet and ugly, and Sam knew they had to hurt like hell every time his brother moved his arm.

Filling the coffee pot with water, Dean glanced at Sam. "So… _how_ did she know about that? We literally stumbled on it ourselves. Not like it's being advertised on billboards."

"Maybe she started hunting," Sam offered.

"God, I hope not," Dean whispered, sagging a bit against the sink, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the floor.

Silence fell between them, the only sound that of the percolating coffee.

"What is it, Dean?" Sam finally interjected, unable to take the line of tension drawing his brother's face into a frown of muted memory.

Dean took a shaky, shallow breath, then lifted tragic eyes to Sam's. "We have to find out more about that damn knife, Sammy," he said, pulling the endearment from a place of need. "We gotta get there before she does, y'know?"

"She's a big girl, Dean," Sam pointed out, "she's been on her own for a long time. She obviously knows what she's doing."

"Yeah, I know," Dean nodded, then rubbed a hand over sleep-puffy eyes before grabbing a large mug from the cabinet that proclaimed _I Heart Trains_ and filling it to the brim with the fresh-brewed beverage. "I just can't help but think… we kinda walked into her life, as screwed up as it may have been with those druid powers and all, and fucked it up even more."

"We _saved_ her life, Dean," Sam protested. "That banshee was already there when we got there, man."

"You ever think about that, though?" Dean sipped the coffee, facing Sam. "You ever think how these people we meet… these people we save… they didn't know about any of this before they met us… and after…" He shrugged. "After they can't _not _know."

"You can't blame yourself for whatever Brenna's gotten herself into," Sam said, feeling a sudden, powerful urge to knock his brother out, stuff him in the back of the Impala and drive far, far away. Before this hunt shortened their time to find a way out of the deal. Before this girl shortened the time he had left with his brother.

"I don't… I just… I can't help…" Dean paused, then took another drink. "Oh, hell, I don't know what I'm talking about. We need to find out what the hell is going on with this damn dagger, then get the hell out of here."

"After we see if it can save you," Sam reminded him.

Dean met his gaze, and Sam saw there the truth that had been hiding from him since they left Jeremy. Dean was willing to fight for his life—to a point. And Sam saw the curtain pull back just slightly in that glance, revealing the limit his brother was willing to go.

"Dean?"

"Whatever you say, Sammy." Dean nodded. "I get dibs on the first shower."

"Save some hot water for me," Sam called after Dean's retreating form.

Muttering something unintelligible in return, Dean waved a hand toward him over his shoulder. Sam rolled his lower lip in against his teeth. _It has to work_, he thought. _I am not going to let him go to Hell on my account. I'm not going to let him go to Hell._

_Period._

www

He had read the same sentence fifty times. The words were nothing more than black dots on white paper, the combination of letters no longer holding any meaning. He couldn't get her out of his head. Seeing her again, so unexpected like that. She looked different, older. But, she'd felt the same.

She'd felt exactly the same.

"Dean."

"What?"

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

Sam reached out and grabbed the ink pen from his hand, effectively silencing the nervous clicking he hadn't realized he'd been doing.

"You're the one who said we had to find out more about the knife," Sam pointed out in a harsh whisper.

"_You're_ the one who said we had to find the knife in the _first place_," Dean reminded him, matching his tone.

Sam sighed and sat back. "Research never was your strong suit."

Dean lifted his eyebrows, folding his hands out and open as if to say _no shit, Sherlock._

"So, what do you want to do?" Sam tossed the pen into the fold of the book. "Wander around and look for Brenna?"

Dean looked at his watch. "It's quitting time somewhere."

Sam rested his hands on his thighs, his head dipping forward in disbelief. "Are you kidding me?"

"Listen, Sammy." Dean closed his book, shoving it toward his brother. "When you weren't around, I did just fine in the library. Found out what I needed and used it. And, dude, I wouldn't take that pleasure away from you for a million bucks."

"You're so thoughtful."

"I try," Dean grinned, pushing to his feet and shoving his chair in, the legs bouncing off of Sam's slightly. He grimaced slightly as the movement from so many hours stationary reminded him that he wasn't completely healed. The wounds on his back had opened in the shower that morning, seeping all over the rough, white towels stocked in the miniscule bathroom.

He'd simply been too annoyed, and too proud, to ask Sam to help him bandage them. "I have my own brand of research," he said, reaching back semi-casually to adjust the slipping gauze patch that he'd fit between the open sores and his T-shirt.

"Yeah, it's called hustling some locals out of their money and barely getting out with your life."

Dean tossed his brother a mock frown, and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, digging into the inside pocket to pull out the two FBI badges. He tossed them on the table, then slid his arm into the sleeve.

"I can't remember—am I Agent Ford, or Agent Hamill?"

Sam chuckled, tipping back on the rear legs of his chair. "Like you'd ever be Hamill."

"Right." Dean grinned. "Ford it is, then."

He plucked the badge from the table, opened it to verify that the picture was indeed his, then slipped it back into his jacket. "Be good, Sammy."

"Wait!" Sam called. "Where are you going?"

"Morgue," Dean answered. "See if those victims can do more talking than the cops around here."

"What about me?"

"I talk to you all the time."

"Dean!"

Dean grinned over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Princess, I won't leave you behind for long."

He turned the corner from the alcove room they'd been camping out in for most of the day, swinging open the main door, completely missing the figure of a dark-haired man slipping quietly into the chair he'd just vacated.

The unnatural Pennsylvania heat slapped him hard the moment he stepped from the library, making him regret putting on his jacket. As he headed to the Impala, he slipped the leather off, tossing it into the backseat, then turned on the car and started toward the police station and the county morgue. They'd opted out of wearing their suits, the heat of the previous day turning the material into a rank, sweat-wrinkled mess.

Knowing the blue jeans and T-shirt look wasn't going to gain him much in the way of respect, Dean swaggered into the police station with confidence and an air of importance seeping from every pour.

Calhoun, predictably, was there to greet him. "Agent Ford."

"Hey there, Cal," Dean tipped his head up in a greeting.

"What happened to your face?" Calhoun asked, his eyebrows up. "You look like you've been in a fight or something."

"Well," Dean crossed his arms over his chest, settling his face into a stern frown. "It's a dangerous job, Cal. Thought I told you I wanted to talk to your boss."

"Yeah, uh," Calhoun shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. "He's been… busy."

Dean nodded, looking around the sparsely-decorated reception area. "Busy, huh? Well, then I guess I won't bother him; I'll just head to the morgue."

"Morgue?" Calhoun squeaked. "Why're you goin' down there?"

Dean leaned close, bringing Calhoun toward him, and whispered, "'Cause that's where the bodies are, Cal."

"Yeah, but, Ross didn't approve of any… I think we need some official papers or… hey, wait!"

"Go get your papers, Cal," Dean called as he pushed through the door leading to the stairs, having already located the morgue on the fire escape floor plan mounted on the wall next to Calhoun's desk. "I'll sign 'em when I get back up."

Closing the door on Calhoun's sputtering protest, Dean took the stairs two at a time, detecting as he got closer to the frosted window with black lettering identifying the morgue that someone behind that door was playing music. Loud music.

Loud _emo_ music.

"_I think of you when you're sleeping, of all the secrets that you're keeping…"_

_Swell,_ Dean thought as he pushed through the door, immediately confronted by the sight of four waist-high metal gurneys, each with a body covered by a white sheet. From beneath the sheets protruded the victims' feet, pale, almost wax-like in appearance. He stepped to the closest.

Mara Whiting. Age sixteen.

His lips pulling down in an automatic frown, he backtracked to the first body.

Celeste Whiting. Age forty-two.

_Mother and daughter_, he thought, moving toward the victims he'd seen in the abandoned lot. As he reached for the tag, a door on the other side of the room banged open, startling him.

"Hey!"

Dean adjusted his face into a benign smile at the sight of the slight, bespeckled Medical Examiner. "Carter, right?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Carter set the tray of shiny scalpels and other instruments on the table, scowling ferociously at Dean. "I didn't give you permission to be down here."

Dean shrugged. "Last time I checked, FBI trumps local M.E."

Carter's eyebrows met over his narrow nose in a scowl and he mumbled something to himself. Dean chose to ignore it.

"So, Carter," he moved toward the slim man, away from the bodies. "Anything you can tell me about our victims?"

"You mean besides the fact that they're dead?" Carter snapped, turning away from Dean and organizing his instruments.

Dean's smile froze in place. "I see you've identified the first two," he commented, raising his voice over the ending crescendo of Carter's music selection. "Any idea where the killer found them?"

Carter paused, straightening. "Why?"

The blaring music stopped for a few beats.

"Well," Dean yelled into the sudden quiet, then, quieter, "Well," he looked back at the bodies. "If we can figure out where he found these four, we might be able to stop the next one."

"What makes you so sure there's gonna be a next one?" Carter tilted his head curiously to the side, his mild eyes snapping with curiosity.

Dean smiled smugly. "That's… classified."

Carter rolled his eyes. Another song started with a series of drum beats that made Dean think instantly of Van Halen's _Hot For Teacher_. He felt the beginnings of a grin pull at his cheeks just as Carter reached over to a dial on the wall by his desk and turned the music off.

"Well, _Agent_," Carter replied snidely, pushing his lips out and causing his mustache to twitch. "From what we can tell, the last place the Whitings were seen was at the train museum."

"And these other two?" Dean asked, tilting his head toward the gurneys.

Carter lifted a shoulder. "A bar."

"Any idea _which_ bar?"

Carter looked at a file on his desk, lifting a paper. "Uhhh… says here it was the Iron Bar."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Iron Bar?"

Carter regarded Dean with contempt. "You don't do your research, do you, Ford? This town used to live and die by iron. There's a mine just outside of town that employed every man in this town, once upon a time."

Dean lifted his hands. "No offense, man," he explained. "Just in my line of work, an iron bar has… a different meaning, that's all."

"Whatever you say," Carter turned back to his desk, picking up a mask and tying it around his neck. Before he lifted it over his mouth, he looked at Dean. "You planning on staying to help?"

"Thought you already knew what killed them," Dean said, feeling the beginnings of nausea twist his gut.

Carter turned to the closest body, pulling the white sheet down to the shoulders of the victim. Dean saw that it was the woman, slices and cuts cleaned, skin unnaturally pale, an oxygen-deprived blue tinge around her lips.

Carter tilted his head as he spoke, his voice a soft sigh of puzzlement. "We know that one was drained of blood and the other's heart stopped, but…"

Dean stepped forward. "But what?"

"I don't know _why_ the heart stopped," Carter shrugged, pulling the sheet completely off of the victim, setting it aside, and leaving the woman exposed. "Tox screen came back normal."

Dean averted his eyes, feeling at once the need to escape and the need to sit down.

"You're new at this, aren't you?" Carter asked.

Dean shook his head, feigning casualness. He felt his voice strangle in his throat as he proclaimed, "Not my first body." He forced himself to look back, wiping his fingers across his sweaty lip.

Carter started the Y incision, and Dean fastened his eyes on the mousey man's profile, and not on the fact that he was essentially skinning a human in front of him.

"So, someone took a few swings at you, hmm?" Carter asked.

"Huh?" Dean bleated. "Oh, yeah, uh, well, y'know… dangerous job and all…"

_What the hell is _wrong_ with me?_

He'd witnessed autopsies before. Seen more dead bodies than he cared to admit—some of them getting that way because of him. But watching Carter break the woman's sternum and clip the rib bones for ease of removal almost had him searching for the nearest sink. His head swam and his back--_goddamn Dad and his goddamn rock salt bomb_—was burning. He felt the gauze patch slip to the waist band of his jeans, the open wound sucking the cotton of his T-shirt against itself.

"How long have you been playing FBI agent?"

That caught his attention.

"Come again?"

Carter paused, holding up two latex- and blood-covered hands. "I said, how long have you been pretending to be an FBI agent?"

Dean schooled his features. "Think you've been down here too long, Quincy. I'm not pretending to be anyone."

Carter lifted a brow, then turned back to the body. "Well, our fourth victim wasn't poisoned. Her stab wounds didn't bleed. Not one drop. And as far as I can tell, her heart was healthy. Right up to the moment it stopped doing its job."

"So…" Dean quirked his brows in confusion. "What killed her?"

"She did." Carter lifted his shoulders. "If I had to guess… I'd say she just… decided to stop living."

Dean dropped his chin, looking at the slim M.E. through his lashes. "You're telling me she killed _herself_?"

"Essentially, yeah," Carter nodded. "The mind is a fascinating tool, Agent Ford. If she believed she was dead, or that she should die, or if she wanted to die badly enough… she could."

"That's crazy."

Carter looked at the gurney waiting on the other side of the man. "She watched him bleed—more and more—with every cut. She watched him dying right in front of her. She was powerless to stop it. And I can't imagine these wounds felt all that great." He looked at Dean askance. "If you were going through that with someone you loved… would _you_ want to live?"

Dean swallowed, his memory graying out any logic. _What am I supposed to do?!_ "I see your point."

Carter looked back at the woman, speaking softly. "She did the only thing she could."

www

"Unless you're here to say goodbye, I got nothing to say to you," Sam said, his voice low and dangerous, the moment Griffin dropped into Dean's empty chair.

"Easy there, kid," Griffin smiled, the scar along the side of his face folding his mouth into a grimace. "You're gonna hurt my feelings."

Leaning forward, his hands beneath the table, Sam slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, resting his palm on the butt of his Glock. He watched Griffin register the move.

"C'mon, Sam," Griffin said. "We both know Dean's the hot head."

Sam simply raised an eyebrow.

"You tell me what you guys have found out," Griffin continued, "I get rid of this bastard. Everyone's happy."

"Exactly how does that make _me_ happy?" Sam inquired, his face stoic.

"You keep your brother in one piece," Griffin stated, any semblance of friendship gone from his voice.

Sam slipped his gun out, laying it on his thigh. "You stay away from my brother."

"Or what?" Griffin huffed.

Sam felt his eyes empty, felt cold certainty seep in. "Or I'll kill you."

Griffin sat back, regarding him silently for a moment. Sam kept his eyes on the swarthy hunter's face, feeling no regret, no remorse, no hesitancy at saying those words. He would kill this man if he did _anything_ that harmed his brother, or got in the way of Sam's chance to save Dean from the pit.

He'd seen moments—heartbeats of time that Dean tried to hide—when the memory of Sam's death, of Sam dying, of Sam simply being _gone_ crawled across Dean's face. Those moments were so full of fear and pain and loneliness that they took Sam's breath away. He couldn't fathom life without Dean around. A world without his brother's roguish demeanor was not a world Sam wanted to be in.

And if he failed, Sam knew he'd never be right. He'd never be the same again.

Nodding, Griffin finally sat forward. "Fair enough. Straight up? I need your help."

Sam raised his chin. "What happened to _leave me alone_ and _I won't have any more blood on my hands_?"

Griffin tipped his hand up in a gesture so Dean-like that Sam blinked. "Had a change of heart."

"Why?"

"You have to have a reason?"

"Yes." Sam's voice left no room for maneuvering. _You want my help, you gotta give me something in return._

Griffin sighed. "I may have found… something."

"Well," Sam sat back. "That's specific."

"Listen," Griffin leaned closer, his voice low, drawing Sam in despite himself. "This guy is a freak of nature, and is, no shit, older than dirt. But… I gotta be the one that takes him down. And I can't do that as long as he has that fuckin' knife."

"What do you know about the knife?" Sam asked.

"I don't give a shit about the knife," Griffin spat. "I want Adoamros."

"Ada-who?"

"The wizard's name is Adoamros. He is—or used to be, anyway—human. He's been using that knife to stay immortal."

"Swell," Sam sat back, tucking his gun back in the pocket of his jacket. "So, what do you want from me?"

Griffin ran a hand over his mouth. "I kinda screwed myself when I blew off that red-head. She was all ready to get this guy. Coulda used that."

"Yeah? How?" Sam narrowed his eyes, remembering the last time he'd seen Brenna, kissing is brother goodbye on the deserted highway in front of her burned-out home and destroyed life. _Could she have really become a hunter?_

"Distract her with going after the knife, find out how to get it away from the wizard," Griffin said matter-of-factly. "If she's focused on that, she won't get in my way."

Sam tilted his head. "Why do you want this guy so badly?"

Griffin looked away, his face unreadable. "It's for Beck."

"Your brother?"

Griffin held himself perfectly still. Sam wasn't even sure he was breathing.

"The wizard summoned the dearthair. Turned it loose on us. On Beck."

Sam looked down, chewing on his bottom lip. Dean would be pissed as hell when he found out, but logically, he could see the benefit of working with Griffin—he wanted the Kestrel dagger, Griffin wanted the wizard. He could make this work; all he had to do then was figure out how to harness the power of the dagger.

"What do you think you found?" Sam said, his voice directed toward the table.

There was a pause long enough that Sam brought his head up to look at Griffin, catching the mixture of triumph and gratitude in the hunter's eyes.

"I think I know where the bastard lives."

www

"Sammy, answer your damn phone," Dean barked into his cell. "I'm heading to a place called the Iron Bar, downtown Brookville. Find a way to meet me there."

He slapped the phone shut, dropping it on the seat next to him. He twisted his head over his shoulder awkwardly, trying to get a glimpse of his wounds. The heat of the day was nothing compared to the heat radiating from his skin and tracking down his arm. He knew they were infected, and he knew he was an idiot not to treat them.

Huffing out a resigned sigh, he slammed the gear into drive and, checking quickly for traffic in the quiet town, peeled out in search of a pharmacy. A train whistle in the background faded into the almost metallic feel of the heat that wrapped around the car. He caught sight of the train as it followed the tracks between the trees and into town.

The empty box cars made him thinking of Sam organizing the contents of their dad's stash of pictures this morning. He rubbed his eyes, feeling slightly guilty for leaving Sam to his own devices, but he knew his brother was savvy. He could more than handle himself. He was okay getting to the bar alone.

Dean dialed Sam's phone once more. "Where the hell are you?"

Instinct alone had him slamming on the brakes just before he hit her motorcycle broadside. The big car jerked to a halt in the intersection, Dean gasping with a jolt of surprise, his eyes meeting Brenna's in confusion, relief, and the fear that accompanies a near-death experience.

She turned her bike, pulling over to the side of the road. He curbed one wheel of the Impala parking it. He slammed the door with extra force, stomping toward her as she yanked her helmet free and slapped it down on the seat of her bike.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?!" They yelled at each other.

"Me?" Again, in unison.

"You ever hear of a four-way stop, Winchester?" Brenna shot back at him, her red-gold hair flying around her sweaty face in angry wisps.

"_You_ ever hear of the right-of-way?" Dean pushed his face closer to hers. "I could have killed you!"

Brenna pulled back slightly. "Looks like you still want to."

Dean closed his mouth with a click. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Brenna answered, crossing her arms over her chest, staring up at him. He was close enough that he could count her freckles. "What are _you _doing here?"

A horn honked, reminded them that they were standing in the street. Without a word Dean turned, his head in a tangle and warring with his heart, and started for the Impala.

"Wait," Brenna reached out, grabbing his right shoulder to turn him around.

The sudden shock of pain that reverberated through his body, shaking his hand in an uncontrollable spasm, caused him to cry out, jerking away.

"Whoa, easy," Brenna said, her voice dropping an octave and becoming like liquid. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean said tightly. "I just—"

"Hey!" Called an irritated voice. "People got places to go here!"

Dean waved at the driver and stepped up onto the sidewalk. Brenna followed.

"I messed up my back a few days ago," Dean explained, thankful for the small amount of shade that the building they stood beside provided.

"Let me guess," Brenna said dryly. "You haven't gotten it looked at."

"Sam looked at it."

Tilting her head, she commented, "And here I thought Sam was trying to go to Law School. Didn't realize he was pre-med."

"Smart-ass," Dean grumbled, heading toward the car once more.

He needed to get away from her. Her scent, her eyes, her _presence_ was drawing him in like the gravitational pull of a black hole and if he didn't turn away now, he wouldn't want to turn away at all.

"Dean, please," she said, softly. "Please don't go."

He halted, his hand on the door of the Impala, and closed his eyes. His body was thrumming with the effect of the sun beating down on his head and neck and the pain in his shoulder seemed to increase as the heat built.

"I-I think," Brenna stepped closer to him. Even with his eyes closed, he felt her move closer. "I think I had a vision."

That brought his head up. "What?"

"Only it wasn't like usual," she hastened to add. "It wasn't from touching someone."

"What was it, then?"

"It was a dream—I've been dreaming about these murders, this… this knife."

Dean dropped his hand from the door, watching her.

"I dream about the victims, and I, uh," she swallowed.

"You what?"

"I dreamt about Sam."

"What?!" Dean moved around the end of the Impala, backing Brenna up as he moved toward her. "Tell me everything. _Now!_"

As he reached for her arm, the dizziness he felt in the morgue earlier washed over him like a wave and he staggered. His vision went white, and he felt a rush of moisture hit the back of his throat. He felt Brenna's small hands reach for him before he fell into her, catching him about the waist, her shoulder tucking up beneath his arm. Without a word she pulled him close and began to move them forward.

"Wh-Where are we going?" Dean slurred. He blinked his eyes wide, trying to clear his vision. It was as if a layer of wax paper had been pulled over the world.

"Get you out of the sun, first of all," Brenna pulled open the closest door to them. "And get you some medical attention second of all."

"Brenna, no, I—"

"Oh, chill out," she said, hauling him up to an information desk. "I won't sic a doctor on you."

Dean blinked again, his head clearing in the coolness of the indoors. He planted his feet, bracing himself as she stepped away, a bright smile on her face as she approached the elderly lady sitting at the desk.

"Hi, ma'am. I was wondering, do you have a place where my friend might lie down? The heat today—"

"Oh, isn't it _dreadful_?" The lady agreed. She looked over Brenna's shoulder, meeting Dean's burning eyes. Clicking her tongue she shook her head. "You poor dear. Hang on, there's a room in the back. I'll just get the key."

As she pushed herself to her feet, Dean saw the sign behind her. _Brookville Railroad Museum._

"We're at the museum?" He asked softly.

Brenna looked back at him. "Yeah, why? You want a tour or something?"

Dean chuckled softly, feeling more revived by the second as the cool air soothed his super-heated skin. "Not exactly. This is where the first two victims were last seen."

The museum information lady returned with a key attached to a large board that red _Storage._

"Ma'am," Dean asked as he and Brenna made their way back to the storage room behind the elderly lady. "Is there a place called the Iron Bar around here?"

The lady shot him a surprised look. "It's next door," she said, "but I don't think it's that kind of drink you'll be wanting right now."

Brenna laughed nervously, slipping Dean's arm over her shoulder. "It's the heat, ma'am," she offered. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

The lady clucked once more. "'Course not, poor dear. There's a sink and some towels and a couch back here," she pushed the door open after unlocking it. "Just move those mops and signs and such."

Brenna thanked her and took the key. Dean shoved aside a couple of display signs and dropped gratefully onto the couch. Leaning to his left, he rested his forehead on the arm of the couch, smelling the moth balls and musk scent of the old furniture.

"I'll be right back," Brenna said from the doorway.

Without lifting his head, Dean asked, "Where are you going?"

"I've got something that'll help you," she replied.

She closed the door behind her, leaving Dean to the cool mercy of the dark. He patted his jeans pockets looking for his cell phone to call Sam once more.

"Dammit," he muttered, sitting up as he realized he'd left it on the seat of the Impala.

Not two minutes later, Brenna returned, locking the door behind her and dropping her saddle bag on the couch next to Dean. She flicked on the light above the small pedestal sink and began searching through boxes and cabinets. Dean sat still, feeling slightly disconnected from the world.

"So, about this dream," he prompted.

Brenna stopped moving for a moment, then resumed her quick, efficient pace. "It was different."

"Different how?" Dean grunted as he carefully pulled his T-shirt from his body, hissing as the cotton came away from his wound with a painful, sucking tug.

"In the other dreams, I never heard anything, and in this," Brenna turned around, a wet and a dry towel in each hand. Dean heard her breath catch in the back of her throat as her eyes hit his semi-naked body.

He could only stare back at her. "Brenna?"

"Nice… tat," she said, blinking. Her eyes pulled slowly from his chest to his mouth to his eyes. "Is it new?"

"Yesterday," he answered.

She shook herself slightly, and when she spoke next, her voice had a ragged edge to it that coiled deep in his belly. "In this dream, I heard you and Sam speak."

"What did we say?" he asked softly, shifting on the couch so that she could sit next to him.

"You just said each others' names. Here," Brenna said, handing him the towels. "Hold this for a sec."

She turned and grabbed her saddle bag.

"What's in there?" Dean asked warily.

Brenna pulled out a small jar filled with what looked like purple face cream. "You oughta know. I've used it on you enough."

Dean grinned. "Right."

"Gave you the recipe for this once before, if I recall."

"We're, uh, more the… dining out type," Dean explained. "So, we said each other's names…"

Brenna took the wet towel from Dean's hand, turning him slightly so that his back fully faced her. "Damn, Dean. You really know how to screw up your body. What happened to your face, by the way?"

"Just keep talking," Dean demanded, gripping the arm of the couch as Brenna carefully cleaned the bruised area around the worst of the wounds, dabbing away the pus.

Her voice was soft as she continued, "I couldn't clearly see where we were—but it was muddy. And dark. I heard Sam say your name first and it looked like he was hurt—his arm or his shoulder."

Dean frowned, feeling as if he could picture her dream himself.

"I heard you say his name from the other direction, but I couldn't see you. And then… I saw the knife. Same knife as every other time. Diamond blade, heavy hilt. It stabbed Sam in the back—"

Dean tensed as her words bowed him with a pain just as real as what he felt in his back.

"What?" She asked, pausing her ministrations.

"What happened next?"

"I saw you… kinda catch him and you were holding him and I heard you say his name again—"

"Enough." His memory replayed the moment like a negative image slapped across his vision.

"But, Dean, I saw him get killed by this wizard!"

"No, you didn't," Dean said, shaking his head. "What you saw… it already happened. Just finish this up, okay?"

Silently, Brenna applied the salve to his shoulder. As her gentle fingers slathered his hot skin with the balm, Dean felt the pain immediately ease. Muscles he hadn't even realized he'd been holding stiff began to relax. He felt Brenna shift once more, then detected the texture of a large gauze patch being taped over the wound.

"I don't have anything for these bruises," she said in soft apology.

"That's okay," he said, turning. "Already feels better than it did."

He froze as her cool fingers reached up to gently touch the crescent-shaped bruise at the corner of his mouth. He watched her lips twitch as her fingers touched the healing cut caused by Griffin's meat-like fist.

"Who—"

Turning from her, he grabbed his T-shirt. "This is a mess," he frowned. "Wonder what they have back here in storage."

He stood, tossing his stained shirt onto the couch and moved carefully through the boxes, knowing he was going to have to explain to her what happened, not wanting to look at her large eyes when he did so.

"Dean. Please."

"Y'know," he sighed. "I kinda think I liked it better when I didn't have a choice what you found out about me."

"Yeah, 'cause then you didn't have to talk about it."

He swallowed, opening a box marked _20__th__ Century_. "Few months ago," he started, "Sam was killed."

Brenna was silent behind him.

"It's a long story, and if I hadn't lived through it, I probably wouldn't believe it myself, but he was… caught up by a demon and forced into this, like, battle to the death thing."

"Not just any demon," Brenna guessed quietly.

Dean pulled out a conductor hat and set it aside. "No," he confirmed, not ready to offer more.

"What happened, Dean?"

He swallowed, clenching his jaw tight, and removed a dark blue jacket with gold buttons free from the box, setting it next to the hat. "I got there two seconds too late," he said, his voice barely slipping past the knot in his throat. "And… he died."

He heard Brenna sniff, but didn't turn. He couldn't move. He stood with his hands on the edge of the box, his bare skin gathering in gooseflesh as the air conditioning chilled his heated skin. Digging deeper, he found a white shirt—more Sam's size than his—and pulled it out.

"He died and all I could do was hang onto him, y'know?" He could see Brenna nodding slowly from the corners of his eyes as he turned. "I laid him on this bed in this run-down old cabin, and I just watched him. And I… I kinda…"

"You disappeared," Brenna whispered, her voice thick with tears.

Dean turned to face her. "Yeah."

"Wait, I'm confused. You told me he was fine," she wiped the back of her hand across her wet face. "You said… you said he looked at your wound. And, back in the diner, you said you had to get back to him."

"I did," Dean licked his lips, feeling a tight fear build in his gut as he prepared to say the next words.

"But… how did you…"

"I brought him back, Brenna," he said softly, forcing the words out. Making himself say them. "I went to a crossroads, I summoned a demon, and I made a deal."

Brenna blinked, her large eyes swimming with sorrow. "Come again?"

Dean licked his lower lip. "I traded my soul for Sam's life."

It sounded so simple when he said it aloud to her. It sounded as if his soul were something he could pick up at the store. As if he had several extra tucked away on a shelf, or hidden in a storage unit.

Brenna's eyes went flat, disbelief crossing her smooth features chased by anger. "You… what?"

"You heard me."

"_Why_, Dean?"

Dean pulled his brows together over the bridge of his nose. "You really need to ask?"

She stood up, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were cold, and crossed the room, her back to him. Her hands moved up and down her biceps in a nervous motion. "I can't believe… I mean, I _can_ but I don't want…" She whirled suddenly. "How long?"

"A year from the day."

"So… when? When do they come to collect?"

"'bout six months. Give or take."

She gaped at him. "Give or _take?_" Then, in a hiss, "You selfish bastard."

Turning away, she crossed the room once more, and he watched her shoulders tense as she began to pace at the opposite end of the small room. He peered closer and realized her lips were moving in a rapid, near-silent litany of what he assumed was disappointment and rage.

As she turned she flailed her hands in short, tight circles, muttering in what he finally recognized as Gaelic. Her voice rose as she worked herself up and every two seconds she shot him a look with heat in her eyes.

"…twigim…brionglóid," she muttered and he tipped his head closer, as if catching her words could possibly bring meaning. "… ceangal… Declan," she crossed herself quickly, "ar dheis de go raibh a anam…"

"Is this going somewhere?" He finally inserted.

"You don't get it, do you?" She turned, stepping toward him. "You just have no clue what you've done."

"I got a pretty damn good clue," Dean protested. "I saved my brother's life! I brought him _back._"

"What if he wasn't supposed to come back?" she cried.

"Don't say that," Dean commanded, his voice cold. "Don't you _say_ that. Sam is_ supposed_ to live. He's better than… _he_ belongs… Just… you don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

"Don't I?" Brenna reached out, pushing her fingertips against his chest. "It's all I know about you, Dean! You have no fuckin' _clue_ how important you are, do you? How much you matter?"

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded, stepping forward, wanting her to cower back, finding instead an immovable force of female ire and will. Her eyes glistened with something he hadn't seen before. Not in her eyes at least.

"When I could see inside of you," she said, tipping her chin up so that she could meet his eyes. "All I saw was your brother, your father. They made you who you are."

Dean said nothing, feeling the electric heat from her body shimmer into his skin. Waiting to see where she was going to take this.

"But you're in there, too, Dean." She pressed her palm flat on his chest. "There are times you shine in there. You are a gift; everything about you, everything you do, everyone one you save, everyone you meet… they can't help but see that."

"Brenna," Dean shook his head, not wanting to hear this. Not wanting to feel her devastation.

"And you gave it away," she whispered. "For Sam."

"Yes," he replied, unhesitant and unrepentant, his eyes hard, his jaw tense. "And I'd do it again."

Her lower lip trembled. "I know."

They stood for a moment, staring at each other. Dean couldn't read her, saw only sorrow in her eyes.

"You want to go now, feel free." He tried to level his voice, keep the distant tone he thought he'd perfected. "Thanks for the goop."

"Go?"

"I'm basically a dead man walking, right?" His whole body was tight, his skin seeking touch as if it could reach out of its own accord. If she walked away now, he felt certain he would shatter from the inside out. "No reason for you to get tangled up in that."

"You really are a bastard, aren't you?"

"So I've heard."

"That how you push the rest of your girls away?" Brenna's eyes flashed with a challenge: _put me in a box; categorize me. I dare you._

"No," Dean shook his head. _I always left first_.

"You're saying you didn't tell them the truth? Use it as a ploy?" She brought herself closer to him, sliding her feet, her chest practically touching his. "Someday isn't good enough? We've only got tonight?"

"_No_." Dean's voice was ragged, needy, open. She was laying him bare without a touch, without her power. "I never told them the truth."

"Why not?" she breathed.

"Because they weren't you."

The sound that escaped her was split between a laugh and a moan, and suddenly his arms were filled with her, his senses flooded with her. She gripped his shoulders as if hungry to get to the core of him. He wrapped her close and let her kiss him.

Her lips were gentle on his wounded mouth, her tongue a gentle caress. He felt himself breathe her in, his hand cupping the back of her head to press her closer. She pulled away, and continued to kiss him, her mouth trailing coolness down his neck and across his shoulders, down the plane of his belly, lingering on each scar, caressing the ones she had repaired herself with the tip of her tongue.

He wasn't fully conscious of moving from the center of the room to the ancient, broken-down couch. His next rational thought was that he had to get his boots off in order to slide his jeans from his ankles and not act like a teenager in heat rutting against her.

"I'm scrunched on this thing," she gasped, wiggling lower as her shirt landed in a heap on the floor and her bra found its way over the edge of one of the storage boxes.

"I know," he huffed, kicking his boots off finally and wiggling out of his Levi's. "I think you're onto something with that bed idea."

Muffled laughter turned to moans of pleasure as skin slid against skin and he forced himself to slow, to savor. In the back of his mind was the knowledge that this could be _it_. His last moment of peace, his last moment of unfiltered happiness. The last time strings were cut and knowledge was secret. The last time he was simply _Dean_ and she was simply _Brenna_ and they were all about what made them feel good in that moment.

He pressed her hands above her head, kissing her collar bone, wanting to linger, tasting the salt of her skin, the tang of the honey-like scent that was all Brenna. She shuddered slightly as he made his way down between the valley of her breasts, arching against him as he captured one tan bud in his mouth and pulled it deep.

What a fascinating sensation that was. Watching her eyelids flutter closed, her mouth open as he tasted that part of her gave him a thrill unlike any other. He wanted to see that again. Wanted to feel the liquid heat that followed the trail of sweat down his body to his center, shaking him and rolling inside of him. He turned his attention to the other breast and the sound of her breath tripping along the back of her throat as she gripped his short hair made him moan.

Ragged need took hold of him and he had to taste her. All of her. Her belly was soft and her hip bones jutted forward, thrusting into the air as if in search of their counterparts. Brenna seemed to realize where he was going and tried to tug him up by the hair. Part of her wanted his mouth, he realized, when her hips rocked up as if on a cord of need.

He ran his tongue inside her heat, feeling himself harden at the sweet, soft taste. Brenna tightened, her breath becoming desperate, whimpers easing the grip of her fingers, turning instead to thrusts of concession. When at last she shook, he crawled his way back up her body.

"Holy…" she breathed. "That was… new…"

"Practice makes perfect," he muttered, bracing his hands on either side of her head, holding his body away from her.

"Yeah? Lucky for you I'm a quick study."

His blood heated up at her tone, rolling inside of him to a boiling point.

He felt her heels creep up his calves, tucking him close, drawing him down the length of her. He let her control the situation, keeping his eyes on hers. The feel of her bare skin against his was stimulating—she was soft where he was coarse, pliant where he went hard, curved where he was angled. She was everything different and fascinating and he wanted to meld them until he forgot where he ended and she began.

With a slight tick of her hips, she brought him up against her, teasing him while holding him away with her legs. He bit his lip, working to keep the moan inside, fighting to resist what she was doing to him. She rocked once, her heat melting him inside and he gasped.

"Son of a bitch…"

She thrust her hips up and forward, taking him in, shifting until his length was buried inside.

Her moan destroyed him, taking him apart brick by brick, leaving him exposed by the sheer power of _who_ she was, not _what_ she was. He tried to hold still, tried to savor the moment of connection, tried to register what it felt like to be one with someone he had genuine feelings for, but the heat was too much, the _need_ was too much.

"Move," she pleaded.

He rocked over her, feeling himself slide against her, feeling the warmth coil in his belly, feeling his body go taut. Brenna's fingers tightened on his shoulders, gripping him against her like a lifeline, their bodies sealed with desire, heat, the slick sweat of the moment, of their past.

"That's it, like that."

"Hold on… hold onto me."

They glided against each other. Speed increased, the sound of her breath in the confines of the storage room amplified everything—the blood rushing in his ears, the heat in his groin, the tension in his belly.

For one brief, heartbeat of a moment, everything stopped. The earth stopped. Time held its breath. And then… the world exploded. He felt liquid gold spread through his limbs, wave after wave of ecstasy spilled over him, through him, out of him, carrying him toward what felt like the sun. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think.

He heard her cry out beneath him, heard her gasp, heard her whimper, "Oh, my _God_."

And then everything was still once more.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you, uh… get off me? Please?"

He pushed himself up on trembling arms, realizing that with his collapse into the void of pleasure, he'd nearly crushed her with his weight.

"Sorry."

He tucked his arm beneath her, pulling her close, then rolled, wincing slightly as his bruised back made contact with the couch. Brenna held still for the ride, tucking into him when he settled so that she lay on top—separate but a part of him.

"Thanks."

"Sure," he whispered, absently drawing her hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

The repetitive motion began to calm him, his heartbeat slowing, his breath regulating. He felt her fingers begin to hesitantly trace the healing scab of ink that created the sunburst sigil tattooed on his chest.

"Declan used to tell me a story about the sun and the moon," she said. He felt her lips move against his chest as she spoke.

"Yeah?" He knew they shouldn't lay here long. He knew he had things to do.

"He'd tell it to me in Gaelic to put me to sleep when I was a little girl. After my parents were killed. Said it was a Celtic fable about the creation of the sky."

Her fingers bounced gently along the pattern and Dean closed his eyes, blocking out everything: the discomfort of his back, the passing of time, the fact that Sam was elsewhere, the hunt, the knife, the victims… _Hell_. He turned it all black, for this one moment allowing himself to feel only Brenna, her head on his chest, her legs tangled in his, her fingers on his skin.

"He said that when time was still new, the world was a place of eternal light. That the creatures on Earth wished for darkness because the light was relentless. The sun found out and got angry, so he vowed he'd never shine again."

She sighed slightly and shifted so that different parts of her pressed against him, but continued to trace the tattoo. "One of the creatures on the Earth was a beautiful maiden with flowing silver hair. She would sit in the dark and sing for the light to return. The man in the moon heard her singing and fell instantly in love with her; his love was so great, in fact, it reflected from him and washed the world in a soft glow the color of her hair."

Dean smiled, continuing to stroke her hair.

"This made the sun angry, so he returned and drove the moon below the horizon. But, the maid sang for her love to return and the moon heard her, and his love was so powerful that he forced the sun to hide. The maid knew the sun would be back, though, and so she climbed the tallest mountain, trying to reach her love. She couldn't fly, of course, and ended up plummeting to the rocks below as the moon watched in horror."

Dean's hand stilled and he felt his breath catch slightly, caught up in the images her voice evoked. He suddenly had the feeling that this story was going somewhere specific, not just post-coital pillow-talk.

"Seeing this, the sun realized he'd caused the tragedy by his selfishness. He cried to the gods to save the maid and promised to share the sky with the moon. The gods were moved by his generosity on another's behalf. So, they scooped up her body and threw it into the sky. Her soul, bursting with happiness that she would be with her love forever, exploded in a million points of light that became the stars we see today."

Her fingers stopped their repetitious tracing of his tattoo and she turned her head, balancing her chin on his chest, her large eyes drawing him in.

"Which one am I?" Dean asked, his voice husky.

She smiled sadly. "You're the maid, Dean. I just hope the gods see you're worthy of stars."

Dean shook his head slowly, his chin rubbing the top of her head. The soft knock at the door startled them both. Dean sat up quickly, very aware of his nakedness, and was suddenly reminded of their location.

"Y-Yes?" Brenna called, hesitant and surprised.

"Everything okay in there, dear?" the elderly museum lady's voice called.

Brenna covered her mouth, hiding an uncontrollable grin. "How loud were we?" she whispered.

Dean shrugged, scrambling for his boxers. "How the hell should I know?"

"We're fine!" Brenna called to the lady. "Be out in a minute."

"Okay, well, take your time, but… well, there's a young gentleman out here for you when you're… when you're ready."

Brenna looked at Dean. "Virge."

"Sam," Dean said at the same time.

"Where the hell are my clothes?" Brenna stood, casting about.

Dean pulled on his jeans, watching her with frank appreciation. "You should never wear clothes."

"Funny," Brenna grumbled, finding her bra and jeans. "I know I had a shirt when I came in here…"

Dean grabbed the conductor shirt he'd pulled from the box earlier and slid it on, rolling up the too-long sleeves and allowing the shirttail to hang over his rear-end. After another moment, Brenna had dressed and grabbed her saddle bag.

"Ready?"

"Brenna," he said, knowing that everything was going to come rushing back to swarm them the moment they stepped through the storage room door. She simply looked at him, waiting.

"I didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice, Dean."

"Yeah, but," he stared hard at her, willing her to understand. "_I_ didn't have one."

They stepped through the door, heading back down the hallway to the still-empty entrance of the museum. As Brenna turned to the elderly lady and handed her the storage room key, Dean caught sight of a red baseball hat in the lobby.

"Heads up," he said softly to her, snapping her attention outward.

"Virge," she said, compelling the other man to turn and face her.

"Brenna, where the hell—" Virgil stopped when he saw Dean. "Oh."

"How did you find me?"

Virgil returned his attention to Brenna. "You really have no faith in me, do you?" he asked sadly. "Your bike's outside. I was worried."

"Nothing to be worried about."

Virgil flicked his eyes to Dean once more. "Yeah, well, that's good to know since I saw that other hunter skulking around next door."

"What other hunter?" Dean asked, stepping forward.

Virgil narrowed his eyes slightly. "The dark-haired one that called you Patti Smith."

Dean raised an eyebrow and looked down at Brenna.

"Don't ask," she said.

"At least pick a _good_ rocker chick. Lita Ford, maybe."

"Dean!"

Dean brought his head up at the sound of his brother's voice. "Sam?"

"You said the Iron Bar," Sam accused, his eyes shifting to Brenna. "What are you doing here?"

"How did you find me?" Dean asked, unconsciously echoing Brenna.

"Impala's out front, dumbass," Sam scowled. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Dean and Brenna protested together.

As if on cue, Sam and Virgil stepped forward, Virgil taking Brenna's hand and Sam grabbing Dean's arm, separating them.

"I need to talk to you," Sam hissed through clenched teeth.

www

Ninety-eight minutes.

It had been exactly ninety-eight minutes since Griffin dropped into Dean's chair in the library.

"Tell me you went to the morgue," Sam demanded, his eyes flicking over Dean's shoulder to the huddled form of Virgil and Brenna, caught in a heated conversation.

"Dude, enough, okay?" Dean said, shaking his arm free. "You're acting like a jealous boyfriend or something."

"No, Dean," Sam snapped. "I'm acting like a brother who is up against the clock and looking for a way to save your ass."

Dean looked at the floor.

"I know she gets to you, man," Sam relented, "but we have to stay focused."

"Yeah? Why?" Dean demanded, raising his voice. "We break the deal, you die, remember? Maybe this is my destiny. Maybe I only have this time left, and _maybe_," he grabbed Sam's arm, capturing his attention, "maybe I want to know what I'm missing."

"You haven't missed a piece of ass in months, Dean," Sam growled.

Dean narrowed his eyes, releasing Sam's arm. "I'm just gonna," he looked to the side, then back at his brother. "I'm gonna forget you said that about her."

Sam blinked, realization slowly dawning that this was bigger than he'd thought. He took a breath, and stepped back, resting his hands on his hips. Unbidden, vivid, the image of Lisa sitting on a blanket, calling out to Dean when he visited his brother's dream snapped Sam's attention.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. Dean huffed. "I am, man. I was just… I was worried."

"What did you need to talk to me about?" Sam could hear forgiveness, and maybe a little bit of understanding, in his brother's voice.

"Griffin is here," Sam said. "In the bar. Waiting for me."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "For you? Why?"

"I told him I'd help him," Sam replied. He raised a hand. "Long story short, the wizard's name is Adoamros, he summed the dearthair that poisoned Beck, and Griffin wants revenge."

"Again?" Dean lifted an eyebrow. "This guy is a broken record, man."

Sam shrugged. "Whatever. The point is, he doesn't care about the knife, and he needs my help to get it from the wizard."

"Again, why you?"

"Because I know Latin. And there's a spell in Dad's stuff we got from the storage unit that we might be able to use."

"I know Latin," Dean protested. "If… y'know, I have a book."

"Griffin thinks he found the… lair, or whatever."

"Where?"

"Some old mine outside of town. Guess he's been doing _his_ own brand of research. There's a train stop here at the museum that can take us to it."

"I'm going with you," Brenna said suddenly from behind.

"What?" Virgil protested. "Are you crazy?"

"I _need_ to find this guy, Virge," Brenna said.

"Why?" Virgil and Dean asked.

Brenna darted a desperate look between them.

"It's your powers, isn't it?" Sam asked softly. Brenna turned to him and Sam pulled back slightly at the rush of emotion he saw in her eyes. "You think he can give you your sight back."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand," Sam said, "more than you think. Believe me."

"Folks?" the elderly lady called from behind her desk. "We closed at six…"

"Okay, enough with the caring and sharing," Dean said, raising his hands between Brenna and Sam. "Here's how this is happening. You," he pointed at Sam, "aren't going anywhere near that psycho."

"Dean!"

"He was willing to sacrifice you once, Sammy. No way I'm letting that happen again."

"But—"

"And you," Dean pointed to Brenna, interrupting Sam's protest, "aren't going to the darkside to get your powers back."

"I—"

"_I'm_ going to the bar to meet Griffin," Dean cut off Brenna's protest with clipped tones, "we'll get this Adocarewhathisnameis guy—_and_ his knife," he looked at Sam. "And bring them both back."

"I'm going with you," Virgil said, interrupting Sam's automatic denial.

Dean opened his mouth to protest.

"No offense, man," Virgil said, stopping Dean's rebuttal, "but I've seen you after at least one of these hunts of yours. Might not hurt to have a former paramedic along for the ride."

Dean closed his mouth and nodded. "Okay, you've got a point."

"Dean," Sam protested. "You can't possibly think I'm gonna just stay back here and wait."

Dean turned to his brother, and Sam saw raw honesty hovering at the edges of his brother's eyes. "I need you to… watch out for her, Sam. Okay? Just… stay safe. Keep both of you safe."

"What about you?" Sam whispered. "What am I gonna do if—"

"Nothing's gonna happen, man, okay?"

"I'll be in the back locking up," the lady said.

The group ignored her as the brothers regarded each other for a moment, then Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder.

"You ready, Sinatra?"

"Right behind you."

Sam turned, watching his brother walk away once again, wondering why he let him go, why he always let Dean walk into the fire.

"I can't believe you let him go," Brenna said in a dull voice from behind him.

"Didn't see you trying real hard to stop him," Sam accused.

"He's your brother," Brenna said. "He sold his _soul_ for you, Sam."

Sam turned to her, advancing on her, backing her up against the nearest wall. Pressing close, but not touching her, Sam slapped his hands on either side of Brenna's head, making her jump.

"He tell you that? Or did you see it for yourself?" Anger at this woman surged through Sam the likes of which he hadn't felt since he'd had Meg inside him calling the shots. He grabbed Brenna's wrist and slapped it hard against the wall next to her head, his fingers tight enough to bruise. "What do you see now, huh?"

She flinched, but didn't cry out. Her eyes sought his and he watched her lip tremble.

"I see a little brother," she said, her voice choked, "scared shitless because the only person he truly loves in this world is living with a death sentence."

Sam clenched his jaw, feeling emotions trip the muscles in his cheeks. He stared at her, looking for something—_anything_—that would justify his desire to keep Dean away from her. As he searched her eyes, he suddenly flinched back. Her irises widened, her large pupils drawing him in.

She gasped and suddenly Sam could see a reflection in those large eyes—only it wasn't _his _reflection. It was Dean.

He saw his brother's face in her eyes.

"What the hell?" he breathed.

"Five and six," said a raspy, reedy voice from off to Sam's left suddenly punctuated the quiet lobby, "pick-up sticks."

"Oh, God," Brenna whispered, instinct pulling her close to Sam's body.

"What?" Sam whispered back, automatically wrapping an arm around her, feeling her tremble.

"So sorry to put an end to this, but you won't be apart for long…" the voice continued, sounding… hungry.

Sam blinked as the figure of a man, ageless in appearance, eyes alight with madness, hands rising to reach for them, emerged from the shadow of the museum's entrance.

"What the hell?" Sam said, seeing something in the man's grip as he tried to move Brenna behind him.

Brenna's fear-laden reveal of, "God, Sam, it's him," were the last words Sam registered before he was suffocated in a cloaked wing of black.

* * *

a/n: The Celtic legend that Brenna tells Dean is derived from a short story by Thru Terry's Eyes called "Why the Crickets Sing." She allowed me to give it to Brenna for the purposes of this story.

Playlist:

_Hurt_ by Johnny Cash (originally recorded by NIN, but I think Cash's version is heartbreaking)

_Black Metallic_ by The Catherine Wheel

_Hot For Teacher_ by Van Halen (in passing reference)

Translations:

Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde. _Beware of the anger of a patient man._

Ni dhiolann dearmad fiacha. _A debt is still unpaid, even if forgotten._

Twigim _I understand_

Brionglóid _dream_

Ceangal _connection _or_ bond_

ar dheis de go raibh a anam… _May he rest in peace_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1. _**Note:**_** Violence, potentially disturbing images, and language in this chapter.**

**a/n**: A good friend recently told me that I was using fanfiction as a 'crutch' and not a 'stepping stone.' I'm not sure yet how I feel about that, though I know it was said with love; I _do_ want to make an attempt to write "for real," but until that time, I really enjoy telling these stories, as long as you guys enjoy reading them.

Because nothing lasts forever, I know there will eventually be an end to this for me. But I hope until that time you remain entertained, and I want each of you reading to know that I really appreciate your time and the gifts of your reviews.

As ever, I am grateful for the safety net you provide, Kelly. Ash, your insight was of a true friend.

* * *

_I made a commitment. I'm willing to bleed for you. I needed fulfillment. I found what I need in you…_

_- Right Here, Staind_

www

"What do you need that for?"

Dean pressed his lips together, shoving a full clip into the base of his 1911 and pulling back the bolt to load a bullet into the chamber. He slid his eyes askance, skimming Virgil's doubtful countenance a moment before he answered.

"I'm not going in there naked," he replied. "Besides, I don't trust that guy."

"Thought he was a hunter."

Dean lifted a brow, tucking the pearl-handled Colt into the back waist-band of his jeans and flipping the tail of his too-big, borrowed shirt over the weapon to hide its existence.

"You trust every paramedic you run into?"

Virgil tipped his head to the side, conceding the point. "Wanna hand one over?"

The corner of Dean's mouth pulled up in a partially-amused grin as he tapped the trunk closed with the butt of his hand. The black metal had drawn in the sun's intensity until it felt like a branding iron.

"Sorry man," he said, closing and locking the trunk. He moved around to the front of the car, grabbed his cell from the hot front seat, then locked the door.

"You expect me to go in with you, confront a guy _you_ don't trust, and not have a weapon?"

"No." Dean shook his head, sliding the cell phone into the front pocket of his jeans. "I expect _you_ to wait outside while _I_ go in and confront a guy I don't trust."

"Dean—"

Dean lifted a hand, silencing Virgil's protest. His mind was made up; no one else was going to tangle with Griffin's messed-up sense of retribution. Dean knew he was the only one who could truly put a stop to this run-away train of revenge.

"Listen, man. You're coming along 'cause you can put us back together if this thing goes sideways," Dean pointed out. "So, while I go in there and talk to Mr. Bad-Ass Hunter, you head to your truck and get whatever you need. Meet me back here in twenty minutes."

Virgil narrowed his eyes. "Hey," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I'm not your kid brother. You can't just… give an order and expect me to follow."

Dean felt his face empty of emotion even as his pulse spiked. His lids lowered in a dead-eyed, defensive expression he'd perfected over years of building up protective walls; he unconsciously shifted his stance into one preparing for a fight, only realizing he'd done so when Virgil brought his head up and took a half-step back.

Ignoring the perceived insult to Sam, Dean said in a low voice, "You got a better plan? Have at it. But I'm going in there. _Alone_"

Turning on his heel, Dean stepped away from Virgil, his ears tuned to the other man's movement. A smirk of satisfaction played across his bruised mouth when he heard Virgil swear, then stalk with measured, angry steps toward his red pick-up. Jogging across the narrow street, Dean stepped up to the entrance of the Iron Bar, leaving the heat outside with the dying light of day.

Brookville's Iron Bar was no different from any other saloon, pool hall, or dance club he'd been inside over the years. Music from a jukebox or live band filtering through the empty spaces and gaps in conversation. Bar in the center or at the side, manned by a heavy-set man or a hard-won, tough-sold woman. Stale cigarette smoke and cologne weighing down the air. Worn furniture masked by bright lights tossing well-placed shadows.

Places such as this were as familiar to him as the inside of the Impala, the well-used décor of a motel room, or the gutted edge of a highway. For a moment, Dean felt a stab of nostalgia slink through him as he took in the ambience of the Iron Bar and its evening patrons. It was strange, the things he found he'd miss when the year was over.

Sam, of course.

The Impala, sure.

The smell of the earth after a hard rain, the soft give of a woman's belly against his lips, the weight of a weapon in his hand. He never thought it would be the inside of a bar; he allowed that perhaps it wasn't the environment causing an almost tangible sensation of homesickness, but the idea that his version of normal was what brought him to this fate.

For a brief moment, he wondered if his dad had time to contemplate loss between making his deal and fulfilling his end of the bargain. _Were we on your list, Dad?_

Giving himself a mental shake, Dean stepped farther into the room, his arms loose and ready, his hands open at his sides, his eyes lidded with malice and protection as they skipped over the road-weary men, shifting to warm invitation as they caught the lazy grin of a blonde waitress.

He knew where to find Griffin: far corner of the room, back to the wall, eyes reflecting the light of his cigarette. The urge to roll his eyes at the whole gunslinger image was nearly overwhelming. The only thing that kept him in check was the fact that he was purposely alone in this confrontation, leaving his only trusted back-up, the other side of his coin, behind.

He knew he needed his brother. He was good at his job, but he was better with Sam. He was _best_ with Sam. But he also knew that he trusted no one else to cover Brenna. And she needed covering, despite what she might say. He needed to _know_ she was okay. Sam was his only guarantee of that.

_Focus, Dean_, he admonished himself. Thinking of her now would lead him down a path he couldn't afford to travel.

Taking a shallow breath, Dean moved easily through casual grouping of people, stopping at Griffin's table, his hip bones pressed against the back of an empty chair positioned opposite the swarthy hunter.

"Winchester," Griffin nodded. "Knew Sam wouldn't be able to collar you."

Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the second insult to his brother in the last ten minutes. He exhaled slowly, tightening his jaw as he ticked his head to the side.

"Sam's got more important things to worry about right now," he said.

"I'm sure he does," Griffin smirked. "Doesn't matter. I was counting on this."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "On what?"

"You." Griffin looked up. "Sam woulda just wanted to try to save the bastard."

"And I won't?"

Griffin shook his head. "You won't have a problem wasting him," he answered calmly.

Dean felt the muscle in his jaw tick. It didn't matter that what Griffin said may have been true in extreme circumstances; the fact that he was perceived as having so little regard for the human condition turned something inside of him cold. He felt his pulse slowing, his body working to remain calm, as he leaned over the table, tenting his fingers on the wood, his face inches from Griffin's.

"Don't forget," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "that _Sam_ did what you couldn't with that spirit back in the clearing."

Griffin's dark eyes glittered. "I haven't."

The two hunters held each other's gaze for another tension filled moment, then Dean straightened, leaning a shoulder against the wall near Griffin.

"So, you know where this bastard lives."

Griffin nodded, pinching the remainder of his cigarette between his index finger and thumb, pulling the smoke into his mouth and exhaling it through his nostrils.

"You wanna play nice or what?" Dean pushed away from the wall, his irritation with Griffin's forced nonchalance obvious in the set of his jaw. "I don't have time for this shit."

Griffin smirked, crushing his cigarette out on the table top. "There's a mine outside of town. Been abandoned for awhile; I think it's the wizard's own personal Fortress of Solitude."

"What makes you think that?"

Griffin looked up, his dark eyes holding a hint of amusement at Dean's curiosity.

"Turns out I'm more than just a pretty face," he taunted.

Dean curled his fingers against the palm of his hand. His entire body thrummed with the need to crack his knuckles against the hunter's smug face.

"Listen, asshole," Dean ground out through clenched teeth, "you're the one that changed your tune, not me. I'd be just fine looking for this freak without your help—"

"Looking," Griffin interrupted, "not finding."

"You need me."

"I need your little Latination," Griffin waggled his hand like he thought the Latin rituals and spells to be a bit sketchy, "and your distraction. I don't need _you._"

Dean lifted a brow, quietly seething. Sam had mentioned going back to their rail car hideaway to get one of the spells from John's grenade boxes. Dean knew that if he were to step into his brother's shoes in this trumped-up scheme, he was definitely going to need that paper.

He ran the pad of his thumb across the inside groove of his ring, picturing suddenly an image of John, younger, perhaps, but still road-weary and time-worn, folding the bits of paper and stacking the photographs, setting them behind the wall, backing out slowly to set the tripwire. Had he ever intended on going back? On taking _them_ back?

"Fine," Dean said finally, meeting Griffin's eyes once more. "I'll head back to the rail car and get the spell."

"I'm coming, too."

"Aw, that's sweet, but I don't need you to hold my hand—"

"Dean!"

Puzzled, Dean turned, seeing Griffin straighten in his periphery. Virgil stood in the doorway of the bar, attracting curious glances and inciting muffled speculations with his sudden appearance and frantic voice.

"Sinatra?"

Virgil caught sight of Dean and Griffin and pushed his way through the crowd of people, rushing up to them. The music recycled, drowning out the hushed, hurried conversation of the trio of men in the back of the room, returning the bar patrons to their own business.

"They're gone."

Dean stood, reaching out instinctively to grip the other man's shoulders, focusing Virgil's attention. He was sweaty, pale, and Dean could feel him a subtle tremble beneath his hands.

"What? _Who's _gone?"

"Brenna and your brother." Virgil licked his lips nervously. "And I don't think they went willingly."

Dean's brows met across the bridge of his nose in a fierce frown, his jaw muscle bouncing. "What are you talking about?"

"I was getting my supplies and I remembered Brenna has this… salve stuff, so I went back to the museum and," he held up a bright red plastic tube, about two inches in length, with what looked like frayed tassels on the end, "I found this just outside of the door."

"Looks like a dart," Griffin commented from over Dean's shoulder.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, shoving Virgil out of the way and moving like a human missile through the growing crowd of people. He didn't bother to see if the other two followed. He simply moved.

His pulse beat harder, a fast tattoo of pressure against his temple, his heartbeat echoing denial in his ears as he slammed through the doors of the bar, ran across the street, and met the unyielding lock of the museum entrance.

"Son of a _bitch_!" he yelled, slapping the flat of his hand against the window.

The lights were off inside and there was no sign of Sam or Brenna. He took a step back without regard to logic or the thought of a security system, and reared his leg, pelting the lock of the door with a powerful kick.

The screech of the alarm almost covered his bellow of "_SAM_!"

His frantic eyes shot around the darkened, empty room, looking for some sign of his brother. Near the far wall, he saw something reflect in the flashing white lights of the security system. Striding across the room, he bent down just as the pounding of feet shook the wood floor beneath him.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing, Winchester?" Griffin exclaimed. "You wanna bring the whole town in on this?"

Dean straightened, holding between his index finger and thumb a silver charm twisted in the shape of the Celtic Trinity knot, its broken chain swinging against the side of his hand. He looked directly at Virgil who moved around Griffin's imposing shoulder, his face paler than it had been in the bar.

"Recognize this?" Dean asked in a strangled voice.

Virgil nodded. "It's… Brenna's."

Dean flipped the chain into his palm, and stuffed the necklace in his jeans pocket. "I know."

"Where are they?" Virgil bleated.

Dean looked at Griffin. "That psycho's got them."

"You don't know that." Griffin frowned.

Dean stepped toward him. "I know that this is the last place the first two victims were seen," he yelled over the wail of the alarm, ignoring the curious onlookers from the bar gathering in the open doorway, and continued forward, "I know the next two were in that bar," he pointed across the street, "and I know that you wanted to take a train from this place."

Nearly touching Griffin's chest with his own, Dean tilted his head in a challenge. "_Now_ tell me that he doesn't have them."

The fact that he had left Sam here, with all those facts piling up around him, made him almost physically sick.

"What's going on here?!"

Dean didn't take his eyes from Griffin, recognizing Calhoun's nervous squeak. "Just doing a little FBI work, Cal," he replied.

"Who busted in here?" Ross demanded, stepping into the room next to Calhoun.

"I did," Dean and Griffin replied as one.

Dean blinked in surprise, and Griffin winked at him. Dean pulled back, suddenly off balance. Griffin turned to face the police as Virgil stepped up beside Dean.

"Officers." Griffin nodded, smirk firmly in place.

Ross moved up to Dean. "You better tell me what's going on here, or—"

Dean's already short fuse snapped with an almost audible crack. "Or what? You might have to do your fuckin' _job_?" Dean pushed past him, pausing next to Calhoun and looked back. "The freak that's been killing people in your town? Just took my brother. If it's all the same to you, I'm gonna go get him back."

He walked from the doorway of the museum toward the Impala.

"Your brother?" Ross yelled after him. "Thought he was your partner!"

Dean ignored him, as Virgil replied, "You work together long as they have, those two words mean the same thing."

"Winchester!"

Dean paused with his hand on the Impala's door, jerking his head up at the sound of his name. "What!"

"Not that way." Griffin shook his head. Virgil appeared next to Griffin just as the lonely wail of a train whistle filled the silence left in the security alarm's wake.

"What do you mean?" Dean frowned, feeling time speed up around him, pressing down on him with a weight to rival the oppressive heat.

Griffin pointed toward the approaching train. Dean looked over his shoulder as the large black engine slowed to a crawl. For one moment he hesitated; Sam had said he needed the spell. He knew his brother had been through those documents forwards and backwards. He also knew that Griffin was right: Sam would use the spell to spare the wizard while getting the knife.

Dean was in no mood for mercy. Not if that freak had Sam.

_Who knows if the damn spell would have worked anyway,_ he thought_. Dad had them tucked away like something he was ashamed of… right along with pictures of us._

"Hey!" Griffin snapped him back to the present. "You coming or what?"

Dean nodded, glancing once at Virgil, then followed Griffin as they headed toward the train, pausing where the grass disappeared into a slight gravel embankment. Dean rolled his bottom lip against his teeth nervously, his hands curling into fists and flexing free rhythmically, waiting for the train to stop.

After a beat, the box cars began to pass and the train started to speed up once more. Dean suddenly realized what Griffin intended.

The swarthy hunter bounced once, twice, then started to jog along the side of the train, reaching up smoothly to grip the edge of an open car, swinging into the opening as if he were mounting a horse.

"C'mon, you pansies!" he yelled back at Dean and Virgil.

Dean jerked his head at Virgil, then, pushing trepidation low where it could hide comfortably beneath the recklessness he was willing to engage in when it came to Sam, he began to run alongside the train. He started to pant as he caught up to the opening, reaching, but unable to grip the doorway. Daring to look up, he saw he was just shy of tall enough. Griffin was looking down at him, a grin playing around his mouth.

"Keep going!" Virgil gasped behind him. "Go!"

With a feral growl, Dean found a fifth gear, his legs churning, his lungs burning, the barely-healed wounds on his back crying out. He reached up once more and this time felt the rough, warm fingers of the older hunter wrap around his wrist. His feet left the ground and he instinctively tucked his shoulder in as he slammed against the dirty floor of the box car, rolling to a stop against the opposite wall.

Wheezing, dust pluming around him with his sharp bursts of air, Dean pulled his head up, propping his upper body with his left hand and looked toward the opening where Griffin was pulling Virgil into the otherwise empty car.

Virgil lay in a heap, panting, sweating, then lifted his head to look back at Griffin. Framed in the half-light of moon-rise, his long hair whipping back out through the opened door of the box car, Griffin swayed comfortably with the rhythm of the train.

"Well, now," he chuckled, rubbing a hand over the dark scruff that framed the lower half of his face, marred on one side by the remarkable scar. "The gang's all here."

www

"Sam."

The sound of his name drew him from the comfortable stillness of complete black into a foggy mire of gray laced with pain. The inside of his head felt like bits of a jigsaw puzzle scattered across the floor of a child's playroom.

"Sam."

One more level, a little more light, and he was forming the edges of the puzzle, pulling back a heavy curtain that cloaked memory and stifled realization. The voice calling to him was insistent, fearful… female.

"Sam!"

Sam blinked heavy-lidded eyes, trying to figure out why he was cold, why his body felt so heavy, and why, for the love of _God_,his head hurt so badly. He ran a thick tongue over dry lips. His mouth tasted sour, as though he'd gotten sick in the night.

"That's it, Sam. C'mon back to me."

The voice again. He knew that voice. He felt a spark of irritation at that voice. Irritation he didn't understand. He tried to lift his head, carefully easing the positional kink from his screaming neck muscles, almost afraid that if he moved too fast, his head would roll from his shoulders.

"Shake it off. It's the drugs, Sam. Shake it off, okay?"

"Wh-wha—" he tried, his mouth so dry he felt as if he were speaking through sand. "The hell?"

"Sam!"

She barked it this time. Demanding. He reacted instinctively, jerking his head up and wincing as the muscles along his back and shoulders screamed protest. Blinking rapidly, he felt the webbing of confusion clear as he looked around.

He sat on a dirty stone floor, his back against a thick iron support beam, metal cuffs binding his wrists and pulling his hands behind his back around the beam. His legs were bent in front of him, lying where he'd been dropped, his feet tingling from lack of circulation. He stretched his legs out in front of him and let his eyes roam his surroundings.

It was a cave of some sort, domed ceiling decorated with crystallized stalactites that glittered from the light of a dozen lit pillar candles. On the far wall, he saw a heavy velvet curtain pulled to reveal a bed and a large mirror, and on every available outcropping of rock, unlit candles were stacked in varying stages of melting.

"Sam?"

He looked to his right.

"Brenna?"

She was bound to a similar beam, her hands above her head, wrists trapped in heavy-looking metal clasps, T-shirt torn into a deep V between her breasts, feet bare.

"Yeah," she breathed in relief. "Yeah. You okay?"

"I… I think so."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"We, uh…" Sam looked across the room once more, "got attacked by… the Phantom of the Opera?"

Brenna's weak laugh shook out nervously. "It's that wizard," she revealed.

"You sure?" Sam looked back at her, twisting his hands painfully in his bindings.

She nodded, her loose hair falling across her face. "Positive. I've been…dreaming about the murders. I've really only seen that knife clearly, but every once in awhile…"

Sam frowned. "You've been dreaming about… what murders?"

Brenna shifted, looking up at her bound hands. "The ones here in town."

"Like… visions?"

"No," she shook her head. "Not like before. It doesn't happen when I touch someone. It happens when…"

"Your guard is down," Sam finished for her.

He remembered. He remembered the pain of the flashes that took him when he was least expecting it. Visions of death so vivid and distressing that he flinched at the memory. He pulled his legs up, trying to fold his right one beneath him, working to get his fingers on the small throwing knife Dean always insisted he keep tucked in his boot.

"Basically, yeah." Brenna hissed in sudden pain and Sam looked over. "I think these cuff things will slide if I can—ah!"

"Hey, take it easy," Sam admonished. "Do you know where he went?"

She stopped struggling against her bonds and shook her head. "I came to and saw you, but nothing else. He drugged us."

Sam clucked his pasty tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Yeah, that much I figured out, but… how did one guy get both of us… wherever we are?"

Brenna blew her hair from her eyes. "He's a wizard, Sam. Maybe he has super-strength or something. How the hell should I know?"

Sam huffed out a humorless laugh. "You sound like Dean."

Brenna groaned, dropping her chin to her chest. "Dean."

They sat in silence for a moment. Sam watched her breathe, feeling his anger toward her resurface and surge hot. He was able to maneuver his leg beneath him and grunted with effort as he fumbled for the top of his boot, his wrists straining against the metal bonds until he felt as if his bones might snap.

"I didn't think I'd ever see him again," Brenna confessed softly, her head still down.

"Didn't," Sam grimaced, pausing to take a breath, "stop you from going after him as soon as you saw him, though." He renewed his efforts as Brenna brought her head up.

"What did you expect me to do, huh? Walk away?"

"Yes!" Sam snapped, his fingers stilling as his attention turned her way. "You just walk away. Leave him alone."

"Why!" Brenna yelled back. "Why should I? I loved him, Sam."

"Yeah?" Sam shook his hair from his eyes, staring her down. "And what about now, huh? You still love him? Or was he just part of your master plan?"

"I didn't have a plan!" She shouted. "I didn't know what the hell I was doing, okay?! I was just wandering around, and I didn't have anywhere to go, and I couldn't _see_ anything, and—"

"You want me to feel sorry for you, that it?"

"I don't fuckin' care _what _you feel!" Brenna bellowed.

"Fine! 'Cause I _don't_ feel sorry for you!"

"Fine! I never asked you to!"

"Fine!"

They sat still a moment, breathing in the dank air of the cave. Sam dropped his head, then looked up, feeling his anger drain from him at the sight of tears swimming in her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Go to hell."

Sam winced. "I'm _sorry_, Brenna."

She swallowed hard, looking away, her jaw working overtime, a solitary tear reflecting the muted candlelight. Licking his lips, Sam tried again.

"I know you know about Dean," he said, his heart slamming uncomfortably against his ribs with the reality of discussing what he still didn't want to face. "I know you know what happened to… to us."

She nodded, but didn't look at him.

"I have to save him, Brenna. I can't… Without Dean, I mean…" Sam looked down. "Nothing makes sense."

He lifted his eyes again, watching her jaw tremble.

"The Kestrel Dagger… the knife this wizard has… there's a chance it can save Dean from Hell."

She looked back at him, surprise clear in her expression.

"I don't know exactly how, yet, but I found out enough that if we…" he took a shaky breath, "if somehow we can _own_ the knife, we can control it, and use it to send something else to Hell in Dean's place."

"Some_thing_?" she sniffed.

Sam shrugged as much as his bindings would allow. "I'm thinking demon."

"You got one in mind?"

Sam allowed himself a small smile. "I haven't really thought past _get knife from wizard_."

Brenna regarded him silently for a moment—long enough that Sam wanted to squirm, but forced himself to hold still. The memory of Dean's reflection in her predatory eyes was still vivid and disturbing.

"What did it feel like?" she asked in a small voice, her tears still flowing, but apparently forgotten.

"What?"

"Dying."

Sam's breath caught at the base of his throat, snared in a web of surprise. No one had asked him that. Not even Dean. Once Dean brought him back, the fact that he'd actually _been dead_ was forgotten. Erased. As if it no longer mattered. All that mattered was Hell and the avoidance of it.

"It, uh," Sam swallowed, his body twisted to the right, the backs of his fingers resting uselessly against the leather of his boot, his eyes unfocused as he stared toward Brenna, not really seeing her. Not seeing anything. "It was… dark. And…"

His voice stumbled, his words catching up with his breath, his heart plowing into his ribcage as that night flooded back to him. The pain in his shoulder pounding into his teeth, the complete exhaustion that lifted the moment he heard his brother's voice, the odd white-hot pain in his back as the knife bisected material, skin, and muscle to paralyze him, the shift of the world as he fell to his knees, the grip of Dean's arms as they wrapped around him, the sensation of falling, falling, falling—away from Dean's warmth, away from his words, away from the reassuring breath on his face.

Into darkness.

Into nothing.

"There was nothing around me."

"Did it… hurt?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. I mean…" Sam focused on Brenna's face. "I was scared. I was really scared. Dean was there, and, uh, he was holding me, but I started to fall… kinda fall inside myself. Fall into… black. And I couldn't reach back or say anything. And I felt… nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Cold, pain, wet, tired, relieved… it was like it… went away," Sam said, the metallic taste of the drugs at the back of his throat evaporating as the memory of that night replaced it with bile. "And then… I woke up."

"Just like that?"

Sam nodded. "Just like that. It was like… swimming to the surface of water, y'know? I just suddenly took this really big breath and… I didn't know where I was, or what had happened, and then… Dean was there. Holding me again."

Brenna sniffed, silent for a moment. "You know, I never asked to have the sight. I actually fought it for years and years. And then one day," she wiped her cheek on her straining shoulder, "just like that, I decided to hell with it. I used it. I directed it. And… it grew. I know that sounds stupid, but it's the only way I can think to describe it."

"I understand," Sam said softly, shifting upright once more, unable to reach his knife. "More than you realize."

He thought of the death visions, the terrible pain that shot through his head, the nauseating, disorienting reality that would send him to the ground with only his brother's hands as an anchor. He thought of the extraordinary feeling of a weight lifting from his heart when Dean's bullet plowed into Azazel.

And then he thought of the hollowness that weight left behind. The empty, helpless feeling of seeing nothing. Knowing nothing. Affecting _nothing_.

"It was always strongest around Dean," Brenna continued, her confession barely punctuated with sound and strangled tears unshed as pride overcame them. "He… overwhelmed me. It was almost like he was part of me when I touched him."

Sam looked down, feeling his face heat up, remembering the sensation of a lover's touch, the need to crawl inside of them and feel only them all around.

"But he was gone, y'know?" Brenna pulled Sam's glance up with the question. "He was gone and I was… I was dying inside. I had to _do_ something."

"So, you found the wizard."

She nodded. "It was almost by accident. I was looking for something that could grant wishes. I found something called a trickster—"

"God," Sam exclaimed. "Don't ever—_ever_—tangle up with one of those."

Brenna blinked. "You've met one?"

"Yeah, and let me just say, Weirdest. Case. Ever."

"Good to know," she smiled.

Sam felt something shift inside of him at that smile. Something softening and giving way. Something allowing that he might not be the only one that needed his brother whole, alive, and _there_.

"Anyway, I traced wishes, and the origins of something called a djinn," she tilted her head when Sam flinched. "Another weird one?"

"Don't ask."

"Took me about three months, but I found Adoamros. There wasn't much on him, but what I found out said he was immortal because he was able to feed off of human souls."

"And you thought that could help you because…"

"It wasn't the souls part," Brenna explained, arching up and shifting against the bonds above her head until the flesh of her hands turned white. "It was the immortality part. He was powerful enough," she started to stretch her leg out, pointing her bare toes toward Sam's boot, "to find a way to live forever… maybe he was powerful enough to…"

"Give you back your sight," Sam finished, realizing what she was doing. He shifted his foot to the side as far as his knee would allow. "It's just at the top."

Brenna hooked the cuff of Sam's jeans with her toes, pulling it up. "I can almost… reach…"

A breeze stirred the candle flames. Sam froze.

"Shit," Brenna breathed.

"Hurry," Sam encouraged. "C'mon, Brenna…"

Craning his neck to see her foot as it inched beneath his pant leg, Sam could detect the barest hint of silver from the blade.

"Careful… be careful…" He shot his eyes up to her and saw that she was gripping the beam, the metal cuffs digging into her soft flesh deep enough to draw blood, her back arched away from the ground to add length to her leg. "You can do it…"

The knife slid free with a soft _shink_, dropping into the dirt just beyond Sam's fingers. Brenna sagged against her beam, panting, eyes closed, head back, thin trails of blood snaking down her arms.

"Interesting," came the same raspy voice Sam remembered hearing in the museum, just before his world went dark. "I've never had a couple try so hard to touch before."

Sam darted his eyes around the cavern as the voice emanated, seemingly from the rocks themselves. "Who are you?"

"Oh, _who _I am isn't important," the voice mocked. "It's _what_ I am that you should worry about."

"Yeah?" Sam twisted his hands, trying to find the blade with numb fingers. "And what's that?"

When the wizard stepped into the candle light, Sam froze in honest surprise.

"I am your end," Adoamros proclaimed with a lofty flourish of his hand. "I am your confessional and your executioner in one."

The man was slight, almost mousey-looking, wire-rimmed glasses covering wide blue eyes, a mustache twitching nervously as he spoke, small hands with tapered fingers as if he'd never seen a hard day's work in his unnaturally elongated life. He wore dark jeans, the hems trimmed with orange thread, and a light blue button-down Oxford shirt. Sam half expected to see a plastic pocket protector filled with ink pens in his breast pocket.

As he descended carefully from a hidden opening behind the velvet curtain, Sam exchanged an incredulous glance with Brenna, her expression clearly echoing his own feeling of _what the __**hell**_?

"You undoubtedly have questions," Adoamros continued as he hopped from the edge etched in the cave wall to land gracefully on his feet. "Luckily, I have answers."

He shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans and drew out a small white remote. Pointing it over his shoulder, he pressed a button, releasing a cacophony of sound that Sam soon recognized as the guitar solo of a song Dean would have undoubtedly known the name of. Stalactites trembled with the bass of the music and the wizard stepped closer until he was standing between them, looking down at Sam's booted feet, and Brenna's bare toes.

"I tend to break tradition with the last two. You'll notice you're not gagged."

"Yeah, we did notice that," Sam replied. "What's with her clothes?"

Adoamros smiled, the humor not touching his eyes. "Degradation of the female is essential to keeping the male in check. You awake to see her violated while she slept; you worry for what could happen to her now, while she's exposed, vulnerable."

"I wasn't… violated!" Brenna exclaimed.

Adoamros slid his eyes to her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Brenna replied, but her frown exposed her doubt.

"The way you are chained, shirt ripped, feet bare… I took you as you are. You were pliant against me."

Brenna shot an anguished look at Sam. "No…" she breathed. "You couldn't have. I would… I would know."

"You do know," Adoamros smiled. "You know, because I just told you."

"You're lying," Sam said suddenly, almost as surprised by his accusation as he was by his realization. "You're just… trying to scare her."

Adoamros turned to Sam, walking slowly around his body until he was at his bent leg. Sam closed his eyes, praying that the knife was far enough beneath his fingers that it couldn't be seen from above.

"Just her?" Adoamros asked. "What about you? Her lover? Her other half? Her soul's mate?"

He kicked Sam's leg viciously, sending waves of shock and pain through Sam's knee and causing him to cry out in shock as he quickly straightened the damaged limb, sweat beading on his upper lip and forehead as his vision swam.

"You made a mistake," Brenna shouted in response to Sam's pained scream.

"I never make mistakes." Adoamros turned and chuckled mirthlessly. "It's why I'm still alive."

Sam pressed his lips tight, breathing harshly through his nose to ward off nausea. Sparks of fire lit the darkness of his closed eyelids and he pressed his chin to his chest as he fought to regain control. For a heartbeat the music faded.

"Oh, shit," Brenna breathed, and Sam opened his eyes at her tone. It was devastation and desire. Loathing and longing.

Looking up as a new song filled the empty spaces of the cavern, he saw reflecting in the candlelight the diamond blade of the Kestrel Dagger. He shot a look to Brenna who looked back, helpless, angry, and afraid.

"_Touched, you say that I am too. So much, of what you say is true…"_

"The first pair is done with such need, such abandon, that there's no time to… visit," Adoamros said as he swayed to the slow thrum of the music, stroking the flat of the blade with an almost loving caress. "The second," he looked over at Sam, "is a bit easier, but the killing is no less… amorous." He shifted his glance to Brenna. "By the third, I am nearly full, almost satiated. But the spell requires six, so with you, I have… fun."

"Lucky us," Sam mumbled, wanting the wizard's wolfish eyes off of Brenna.

"Lucky," Adoamros crouched down in front of Sam, "yes. I'm so glad you see it that way."

Holding Sam's eyes with his own semi-lucid ones, Adoamros stroked the flat of the blade down the smooth plane of Sam's cheek, the diamond tip ticking his chin without drawing blood. Sam pulled air in sharply through his nose, lifting his face away from the blade as the wizard gently drew it down his throat. The razor-sharp edge of the knife easily popped the buttons from Sam's shirt with a flick of the wizard's wrist as he continued his path down Sam's body.

Sam dared a glance over at Brenna, registering the desperate twist of her hands against the metal bindings before he looked back at the almost gentle expression on the wizard's face.

"Having fun yet?" Sam ground out.

Adoamros chuckled, tilting his head as he used the blade to open Sam's shirt, exposing the muscular plane of his chest, the strain of collar bone against his skin.

"Let me tell you why there are two," the wizard said, standing, kicking Sam's legs apart, then crouching once more between them. He pulled his glasses from his face, folding them with one hand, and put them in his shirt pocket. "The human soul is practically impenetrable. It is clutched desperately in life, ripped from the body as the last breath escapes, and its journey is forever."

Sam watched the knife as the wizard tipped it one way, then another, catching the candlelight. He couldn't pull his eyes from the edge of the blade, remembering Dean's report of the crime scenes, remembering the paper-fine slices into the victim's skin. He felt his heart hammer against his ribs, trying to keep the fear from his face, from his eyes as the wizard continued to talk.

"The soul is not relinquished willingly. It must be _taken_."

"Shows what you know," Brenna spat.

Adoamros lifted an eyebrow, then stood.

"Brenna," Sam warned, shaking his head.

Adoamros stepped over Sam's leg, moving with a dancer's grace in time to the music as he approached Brenna. Sam blinked with a sickening realization: it was a performance for him. A show. As if someone were watching. Sam looked around the room, trying to see into the shadowed alcoves of the cave.

"The power of immortality comes at great sacrifice," the wizard intoned, watching Brenna as if deciding where to bite first. "Taking your soul will eliminate a piece of me."

Brenna's body tightened, pulling away from the wizard's approach. "Well, isn't that too bad."

"I will take your soul," Adoamros predicted, "and I will have your lover's. He will give it willingly after witnessing your suffering." Using the toe of his shoe, he edged Brenna's stiff legs apart, crouching between her knees, then leaning forward with the balance of a cat, inhaling as he moved his face up her chest and to her throat.

The music thrummed in the background, but Sam could still hear Brenna's strangled whimper as the wizard closed in.

"Hey!" he shouted.

"You see," Adoamros said, his mouth at Brenna's neck, his voice somehow audible to Sam, "the spell is specific: one must be the weapon, the other the wound. The pain is felt by both, but while one bleeds the other is helpless and to save sanity, pleads for it to simply be over."

He pulled away, slowly reaching for Brenna's torn shirt as she tried to shrink further from his fingers.

"And then… it is," he continued, "and the weapon is forsaken. And their soul is plucked from them with little effort."

"You arrogant bastard," Brenna gasped. "You're so clueless it's almost funny."

At that Adoamros straightened, his hand hovering over the rip in Brenna's shirt. Sam pulled against his shackles, trying to find the knife that he'd hastily hidden in the dirt behind him. His gaze pinned to Brenna's fierce face, he watched with awe and terror as her eyes widened.

"Not only is he not my soul mate," she proclaimed, "but you're sadly mistaken about the soul."

"What are you saying?" Adoamros' voice grew hard, a burst of discordant sound against the hypnotic backbeat of music.

"A soul can be sacrificed, can be given willingly to save another," Brenna said, her small hands clenched in fists, her body trembling.

"Brenna…" Sam called, wanting her eyes on him, wanting to pull her away from the edge he could literally feel her teetering on.

"You can't have any soul you want."

"I can!" Adoamros roared. "I will take until I have enough. I will take until I know enough. I will take until he _lives_!"

With that, he reached for her, gripping the tattered cotton of her shirt, skin touching skin, contact made. Sam gasped as Brenna cried out in shock, horror, and pain, the pupils of her eyes overtaking the golden irises, her skin paling at what she saw inside the wizard's mind.

"Brenna!"

www

Dean climbed to his feet. "I want some answers."

His eyes quickly adjusted to the wan moonlight captured in the box car.

Griffin raised an eyebrow. "Gonna have to ask a question, then."

Dean took a step to the side, watching warily as Griffin moved opposite him, creating a tense circling motion as their feet planted in an effort to remain standing, rocking with the motion of the train.

"I want to know how you found out about this mine."

Griffin shrugged. "I looked it up. Town's got a library."

"You call another hunter? Bobby?" He bit off the name as if the sound of it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Bobby's got nothing to do with this."

Dean felt a shift of relief at that, wanting the older man to have a break after the hell he'd been through with the haunting dreams of his late wife. Rolling his lips in against his teeth, Dean darted his eyes to Virgil. The burly ex-paramedic stood in the open door of the box car, his back to them, facing the swiftly-passing scenery. Looking back at Griffin, Dean saw the other man's hand slip to his inside coat pocket.

Reacting on instinct, Dean reached back and grabbed his .45, pulling it free and leveling it at Griffin. "Don't."

Griffin jerked, pulling his hand away from his coat, empty. Virgil turned around at the bark of Dean's voice, but remained silent as he watched the pissing contest.

"Just reaching for a notebook, Winchester," Griffin explained, his hands up.

"Yeah, well," Dean ticked the barrel of the gun toward Griffin's jacket. "We'll see about that. Pull it out. Two fingers!"

Griffin reached in, using his index finger and thumb, and removed a small black notebook. He held it flat in his hand, keeping his arms up where Dean could see.

"You wanna point that thing somewhere else?"

"Not really."

Griffin rolled his eyes. "You're a real piece of work, y'know that?"

Dean remained silent, watching, unwilling to be caught off guard without back-up, unbalanced, uneasy, and if he were honest with himself, afraid.

"I could have left you back there," Griffin pointed out. "Didn't have to pull you onto the train."

"Nope," Dean said, brows pulled close over the bridge of his nose. "But, then again, you need my Latination…"

"Isn't that something you guys should just, like, know?" Virgil spoke up.

The hunters ignored him.

"Tell me how you knew where to go," Dean demanded. "Tell me we're not walking into a trap."

"We're not walking into a trap," Griffin replied, his voice devoid of sarcasm. "I told you, I've been tracking this wizard since Beck died. That bastard summoned the thing that caused my brother's death. I wasn't letting it get away. There's not a lot out there on him, but there's enough. If you know where to look."

"And you did?" Dean's eyebrow bounced up in an inverted V, incredulity plain on his face.

"You don't live as long as I have in this job and not learn a few tricks, Winchester."

"So, you know who the wizard is?"

"I don't have a name, exactly, but I've seen him."

Dean dropped his gun in surprise. "Why didn't you say so befo—"

Before he could finish the sentence, Griffin body slammed him, driving him to the floor, knocking the air from his lungs. His gun tumbled from loose fingers. Rolling free, Griffin reached for the .45 while Dean curled in on himself, retching dryly and gasping for air. Through fuzzy vision, Dean saw Griffin's fingers slap the bare wood of the box car floor, coming up empty.

Coughing, wheezing, desperate for air, Dean rolled to his back, his chest heaving. Over the ring in his ears, he dimly heard Virgil's rough voice demand for Griffin to just back the hell up and sit the fuck down. Blinking, Dean tried to roll to his knees, feeling gentle hands guide him to a semi-seated position, encouraging slow, deep breaths.

"Didn't do your back much good," were the first clear words Dean comprehended.

"Huh?"

He felt Virgil probe the wounds at his shoulder. "Brenna's goop did a good job, but you need to lay off the WWF moves for awhile."

Dean coughed again, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "What the hell, man?" He looked directly at Griffin who was sitting with his knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, a scowl at home on his face.

"You pointed a gun at me," Griffin mumbled.

"So?"

"_Nobody_ points a gun at me and gets away with it," Griffin replied.

Dean paused a moment, then shook his head. "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered.

"Listen, Winchester, I—"

"No, _you_ listen—"

"Both of you!" Virgil shouted, the last man standing. "Shut the hell up!"

Dean closed his mouth with an audible click, looking up at Virgil in surprise. The big man took off his ever-present red baseball hat, rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, then jammed the hat back on.

"You're gonna listen to me right now," he said pointing Dean's gun first at one hunter, then at the other. "You're here for the same reason. You lost someone you love. You," he pointed at Griffin, "just want revenge. That's cool. I get that. You pretty much admitted that to get what you want you need him, so how about leaving him the hell alone for once."

"Yeah!" Dean chimed in.

"And you," Virgil turned to Dean, "are just being an idiot. You want Sam back in one piece? Quit poking the bear, man. Use him, get your brother home. Then go back to doing… whatever it is you do."

Dean frowned silently at Virgil, wanting to snap back, but feeling the quiet conscience of his brother put an invisible hand on his arm, warning him off.

"Why are _you_ here, Cochise?" Griffin demanded.

Virgil slipped the clip from Dean's gun, drawing back the bolt and ejecting the chambered bullet, catching it in the palm of his hand. He handed the empty gun to Dean, then handed the clip to Griffin.

"Because I lost someone I love, too." He looked at Dean, shoving the loose bullet into the pocket of his cargo pants. "And I aim to get her back."

Dean felt his gut tighten at those words, his skin pulling close to the bones of his face, his heart stuttering. He had no claim on her. She made her own choices. But for all intents and purposes, Brenna was _his_. As he looked at Virgil, however, he saw the same sentiment reflected in the other man's eyes.

Dean and Griffin stood, staring at the pieces of the dismantled weapon they'd each been given. Dean looked up, meeting his adversary's eyes, unwilling to be the first to call truce, but feeling this was the moment to do so.

"Hey," Griffin spoke up suddenly. "This is our stop."

He moved to the open door, followed closely by Virgil and Dean.

"Dude… the train's not stopping," Dean said warily.

Griffin put the clip in his pocket, then gripped the doorway, leaning out. "Never said anything about the _train _stopping," he called, swinging free of the box car, landing in a heap and rolling to a halt.

"Dammit," Dean groaned.

"On three?" Virgil suggested.

Dean tightened his jaw, looking down at the rapidly moving ground, then up at Virgil.

"DAMMIT!"

He cursed, swinging out and dropping, feeling the ground rush up to slap his legs with a harsh _crack_ that shook through his spine as he rolled, clacking his teeth shut on his tongue and bouncing his brain against his skull.

He never saw Virgil jump. He didn't hear the train pass. He was alone in the dark. And in the distance, he saw red eyes mocking him, the edges tilting up in a knowing smile of seduction and triumph. He worked to back away from those eyes and felt the very real sensation of flesh gripping his hand and tapping his cheek.

"Dean," called a vaguely familiar voice.

"Leggoame," he slurred, trying to roll away, dizzy, disoriented.

"Open your eyes, Winchester."

Dean obeyed, reality crashing against him with the force of a cyclone. He sucked in a lungful of air, pushing against Griffin's help, bracing his trembling body by the palms of his hands against the wiry grass he lay on.

"Lemme go," he tried again.

"Tuck and roll, man," Griffin chuckled, standing up. "You're lucky you're still in one piece, the way you pile-drove yourself into the ground."

Dean pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, fighting back the very real possibility of throwing up on Griffin's boots. His head spun as his vision worked to catch up to the miniscule movements of his eyes. Mentally he checked himself: everything hurt, nothing was broken.

"I'll try to remember that the next time I jump off a speeding train," he muttered, winning the battle against bile. "Where's Sinatra?"

"Here," Virgil spoke up, trying to reshape the bill of his cap. "Turned the damn thing around backwards," he explained. "Not a good idea."

He reached down and gave Dean a hand up, keeping his grip surreptitiously on Dean's arm until he was able to regain his balance.

"This way," Griffin said, pointing. "Weapons check. Silver Stag Bowie, Ka-Bar, and clip for a .45. Winchester?"

Dean shook his head. "Now you're just showing off."

"You don't think we should know what we have going for us?"

Dean shrugged. "You can tell a lot about a man by the size of his sticker."

Virgil snickered.

"You going in naked, Winchester?" Griffin challenged.

Sighing, Dean replied through teeth gritted in annoyance, "Freakin' empty 1911 and a Hibben thrower." Instinctively, he rolled his ankle inside his boot, feeling the solid support of the six-inch blade John had given him for his sixteenth birthday. There had been two in the set, each inscribed with his initials. He was rarely without one in his possession.

"That it?"

Dean stepped away from Virgil's supportive hand. "Left fist, right fist, what more do you need?"

Griffin moved in front of Dean to lead the way. "What about you, there, Cappie?"

"Think I prefer Sinatra." Virgil huffed.

"Where'd that come from anyway?" Griffin asked, skirting a tree that suddenly loomed in the darkness.

"Sam," Dean and Virgil replied together.

"Thanks," Griffin muttered. "That clears it right up."

Virgil patted the pockets of his cargo pants. "I have bandages, a tourniquet, sulfur—"

"Sulfur?" Dean stopped, turning. Griffin mimicked his movement.

"You need to stop bleeding fast? Packet of sulfur."

"Huh." The hunters replied in unison, returning to their trek.

"Sam have anything on him?" Griffin asked, his voice brisk and business-like.

"Always carries my other Hibben in his boot."

"What about the chick?"

"No," Virgil replied.

"She, uh… may not need a weapon," Dean revealed quietly.

"What do you mean?" Virgil asked.

"Nothing, except…" Dean looked back at the paramedic. "If her sight is coming back… that wizard may have more than he bargained for."

"She's blind?" Griffin asked.

"Forget it," Dean waved a hand at him as the ground turned rocky and they emerged between two mounds of earth and gravel, overgrown with weeds that reflected silver in the moonlight. Ahead of them, he could see a chain link fence, rusted and mangled, covering the semi-boarded up entrance to what appeared to be a mine shaft.

"This can't be it," Virgil spoke up, echoing Dean's thoughts.

"This is it," Griffin nodded.

"No one's been through that for years, man," Dean argued. "No way he's been pulling victims in and out."

Griffin pointed up. "He has if he used the elevator."

Dean and Virgil looked up at the three-story, rickety-looking wooden tower that housed the hand-pulled elevator long ago used to carry miners to and from the different levels of the shaft. The entrance to the elevator tower edged up to a rolling edge of hillside.

"Oh," the duo responded.

"C'mon," Griffin headed toward the entrance.

Dean followed, ignoring the protests of his back with each purposeful step. The beginning of a headache teased his temples as he clenched his teeth against the discomfort of his body. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as the milky light of the waxing moon tossed shadows across their path leaving him to wonder what awaited them in the darkness of the mine. "Wait," he reached out for Griffin's shoulder.

"Anyone got a light?"

"Scared of the dark, Winchester?" Griffin mocked.

"No, just what it's hiding," Dean returned.

"I have matches," Virgil offered.

"You have your lighter?" Dean asked Griffin.

"How did you know I—"

"Dude, you smoke like a chimney, hand it over."

He pulled his knife from his boot, cutting off the edge of his too-big shirt so that the ragged edges barely touched the top of his waist band. As he slid his knife home, he saw Virgil casting about on the ground, coming up with a piece of lead pipe.

"Will this work?"

"Sure, all we need now is the rope and the candlestick," Griffin cracked.

Dean ignored him, nodding at Virgil. "Better than nothing, man." He tied his shirt around the top of the pipe, wadding it at the top like an over-sized Q-tip. "We'll wait until there's no moonlight left."

Virgil took the make-shift torch from Dean as Griffin pulled the rust-weakened chain link fence away from the wooden door. As the burly hunter moved for the barricade, something clicked in the back of Dean's memory.

"_Dean… there's a door back here…"_

"Wait—"

"Chill out, Winchester," Griffin barked, "you want to get to your brother or not?"

As the big hunter shoved the wooden barricade roughly to his right, the bone-chilling sound of a spring-released trigger slid across the silence. Moving without thought, without preamble, and on pure instinct, Dean reached out and pushed Griffin away from the entrance just as a strategically placed cross-bow released its arrow.

Dean twisted as he moved, feeling the tug of the arrow at his torn shirt, landing on his knees in the dirt and gravel.

"Holy…" Virgil breathed. "You okay?"

"Yeah…" Dean replied hesitantly, looking down at his side. The arrow had turned his shirt into little more than a pair of sleeves, but it hadn't creased his skin. He stood, then looked over at Griffin. "You?"

The swarthy hunter sat where he'd landed in the dirt looking at Dean with disbelief. Blinking, he simply nodded before pushing himself to his feet.

"How… how'd you know?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow, clapping Griffin on the shoulder. "Turns out, I'm more than just a pretty face."

"You two ready to go, or what?" Virgil asked nervously, eyeing the darkened entrance.

"Just be careful," Dean cautioned. "This guy does _not_ want anyone in here."

"And here I thought he'd welcome us with open arms," Griffin grumbled, stepping into the dark, Dean and Virgil close behind.

www

"Release me!" Adoamros demanded, his body shaking as Brenna cried out at the images assaulting her.

"Let go of her!" Sam yelled. "Just let her go and it'll stop!"

Surprisingly, Adoamros complied, crab-crawling away from Brenna as in the background Eddie Vedder's growl proclaimed, ironically, that he was still alive. The wizard looked visibly shaken, backing away from them as Sam twisted to face Brenna as best he could.

"Brenna, hey," he tried, licking his lips.

She sat slumped against the beam, her shoulders appearing as though they were straining to their very limit as her body sagged against the metal shackles. He could tell she was crying, though she didn't make a sound. The tremble of her body gave her away.

"Brenna, c'mon, look at me."

"Sam," she whimpered. "It's back."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that," Sam said, darting his eyes at the retreating wizard. The small man was muttering to himself, wringing his hands and moving carefully from candle to candle, lighting them one by one. "Tell me what you saw."

Brenna lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed, her face tear-streaked. He saw that she was no longer crying, but the stark despair in her expression made him feel like begging her to begin again, just to wash that look away.

"He had a brother," she choked out. "A long time ago."

Sam looked back at the wizard, frowning as he seemed to be arguing with someone out of sight. "What happened?"

"They were… they…" Brenna licked her lips nervously, wincing as she shifted against her restraints. "He… _really_ loved his brother, Sam."

Sam looked back at her, for a moment not comprehending. She stared at him, silently, waiting while realization crept in.

"You mean… oh. Oh! Eww." Sam folded his lips down in disgust.

"I saw him—the brother—dead. Bloody. I saw him," she nodded toward Adoamros, "digging a grave. I saw…" she swallowed hard, "him… inhale the souls. I saw him kill, Sam. Over and over. I _felt_ it. He… it's like a drug to him."

"Fantastic," Sam sagged against the beam.

"I was wrong, Sam," Brenna whispered under the rhythm of the music. "I was wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"I don't want this—I was wrong to want this," Brenna sobbed dryly. "I was so wrong… look what I've done."

Sam frowned, leaning toward her. "You haven't done anything, Brenna."

Brenna brought her head up, devastation clear in her eyes.

"_What you don't know won't kill you… what you don't know won't kill you…"_

The music chanted with emotion around them, seeming to cloak them from the wizard's aggravated argument with his invisible counterpart.

"I brought this on us, Sam," she whispered, her voice so vacant he had to watch her lips to understand her words. "I dreamt it, I knew. And I didn't stop it. I didn't…"

"And now," Adoamros turned toward them with a flourish, the showman once more, half of the candles in the cavern lit, casting shadows on his pallid countenance and illuminating the insanity in his eyes. "We choose. Who will be my final weapon?"

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"Dude, this guy has taken a walk right off the map," Dean muttered as Virgil lit the make-shift torch.

Blinking in the wake of the smoke from his shirt, Dean peered at the etchings marked on the mine walls: sigils and signs, half-completed spells and incantations, writing that grew less controlled as they pressed on. A brilliant mind gone mad with time.

"He mainlines human souls in exchange for immortality," Griffin pointed out dryly. "You thought he'd, what, listen to reason?"

"Man, you look like Bruce Banner after he comes down from the Hulk," Virgil remarked, glancing at Dean.

Dean smirked, glancing sideways at the red-capped man. "You know your comics?"

Virgil lifted a shoulder. "Gotta do something to pass the time."

"Marvel or DC?"

"Marvel all the way, man," Virgil grinned.

Dean returned the grin, raising his hand for a high-five. "All right!"

"You two kids ready to keep moving? 'Cause I—"

"Stop! Don't move," Dean suddenly called out.

Griffin froze mid-step. "What?"

"Look down," Virgil choked out. Grimacing, Griffin obeyed.

"Where the _hell_ did he get a land mine?"

Dean thought of his father's storage unit and licked his lips, moving carefully past Griffin's frozen form. "Not that hard if you know where to look. I'll lead the way. Walk in my footsteps."

www

At first Sam didn't recognize the muttering as Latin. The wizard spoke so rapidly it sounded as if he were muttering in German. But as he approached, a word surfaced, then another, and Sam felt his stomach muscles tense as he recognized the rhythm of a spell.

"Stop!" Brenna cried as Adoamros approached Sam, the diamond blade of the Kestrel dagger gleaming in the candle light. "You chose wrong, I'm telling you."

"If I chose wrong," Adoamros purred, eyes on Sam's bare chest, "why do you protest so vehemently?"

"I'm telling you, he's not the one! He's not your weapon!"

"Brenna, shut up!"

"No, Sam, I—"

Adoamros' first slice was quick, across Sam's upper arm, below the shoulder, above the bicep. Sam jerked in surprise at the movement, feeling nothing at first, then exhaled in pained surprise as the burn of separated skin and nerves singed his system, causing him to look down.

No blood. A slice in his shirt sleeve, a long, thin wound. No blood. Panicked, Sam looked over at Brenna, aware in his periphery that the wizard was doing the same. She hung from her bonds, sweaty, angry, arms stained with dried blood from her earlier efforts, but nothing new.

"No…" Adoamros frowned. "No, I can't have been wrong."

www

"Ah! Shit!" Dean jerked, nearly dropping the torch.

"What?" Virgil stepped up, grabbing the lead pipe from him.

Dean reached for his upper arm, pulling his hand back bloody. "Son of a bitch. I think I… brushed against another booby trap or something."

"You okay?" Virgil asked, concerned. "Should I take a look?"

"Nah," Dean shook his head, gripping his arm in confusion and a fair amount of discomfort. "It's just a scratch. Just… watch the walls, okay?"

"Keep moving," Griffin commanded. "We gotta be getting close. I can smell the bastard."

www

"You guessed wrong, pal," Sam said. "Looks like you've lost your touch. No one's bleeding tonight—ah!"

Adoamros sliced again, along the lower part of Sam's abdomen, just under his ribs. The pain was enough to suck the air from his lungs, then slam it back full-force with a choked cough. The wizard's Latin ritual increased in volume, but Sam was beyond caring what the words meant. The music beat a harsh taboo against his skull as he shot a desperate look at Brenna, who stared back, face distraught, eyes destroyed, lips trembling.

"Oh, God," Sam whispered as the wound in his side remained bloodless, and Brenna's T-shirt stayed stain-free. "Oh, God, no…"

www

Dean's cry of pain caught all three by surprise. Without warning, he stumbled, falling to his knees, one hand shooting to the ground to balance him, the other gripping his side as fire shot across his belly.

"Dean?" Virgil turned to him, embers from the slowly dying torch falling on the ground around him.

"Son of a _bitch_!" Dean muttered, lifting his hand to see it painted red with his own blood.

"Lemme see," Virgil handed Griffin the torch, kneeling in front of Dean.

Griffin moved the amber light along the walls where Dean had been walking. "I can't see anything sticking out…"

"That was no booby trap," Virgil muttered, lifting Dean's tattered shirt.

Dean tightened his stomach muscles against the sharp jabs of pain that radiated through him as Virgil probed his wounded side.

"Uh… I can't…"

"What?" Dean breathed, blinking rapidly to ward off the blackness that had threatened to swamp him after the unexpected stab of pain cut him down.

"There's no… cut. No wound." Virgil looked up. "There's nothing there."

Dean looked down at his side. "What do you mean, nothing? I'm bleeding like a—"

"I know you're bleeding," Virgil said, digging in his thigh pocket for a bandage. "But I can't tell from where."

Realization dawned hot and fast, bringing Dean's eyes up to meet Griffin's in an instinct of hunter seeking out hunter. "Aw, _fuck_," he breathed. "FUCK!"

Virgil pressed the bandage against Dean's side, grimacing as the white started to flood pink almost immediately. "What?"

"It's Sam," Griffin said.

"What?" Virgil looked over his shoulder at the other hunter.

"The wizard. He's working over Sam," Griffin elaborated.

Dean pushed to his feet, shoving away from Virgil with strength born of desperation, moving down the ever-narrowing passageway.

"Wait!" Griffin turned, hurrying after him.

"He's got my brother," Dean tossed back, heat from his wounds fueling his progress.

"Stop!"

Dean flinched at the barked order, turning around and advancing on Griffin until he was able to shove him backwards with the flat of his hand. "I'm _not_ losing him, you understand? Do I make myself clear?!"

"You go in there half cocked and you'll just end up losing everybody," Griffin yelled back, an unexpected voice of reason.

"I know what I'm doing," Dean started to turn again, and Griffin grabbed his wounded arm, causing him to cry out.

"You're walking wounded, man. We'll get him out, but—"

Dean shoved Griffin away roughly, barely registering the light dying around them. "You expect me to believe you actually give a damn about my brother's life? After all the shit you've pulled? You're just in this for your own revenge!"

"Because I had a brother, too!" Griffin grabbed the collar of Dean's shirt, pulling him up close until their faces were inches apart. "I had one and I screwed up and I lost him. You don't know what that feels like, so don't—"

"The hell I don't!" Dean shrugged loose. "He's already died on me once, man. I've only got one soul to give, I _can't_ lose him again."

They stood in silence for several heartbeats as Dean's words penetrated the rapidly growing darkness and the material on the lead pipe burned down to embers. Dean and Griffin stood facing off, panting from anger born of pain.

"Are you saying… you're a dead man walking?" Griffin said in a low, forced-calm voice.

Dean licked his lips. "Yes."

"Holy shit," Virgil breathed. "I didn't know you could do that."

"What you don't know could choke a—"

"Stop it," Dean interrupted Griffin's insult. "Just… just stop it."

Something shifted in Griffin's eyes, a softening that Dean might've missed if the shadows of the torch had slid left instead of right. In that moment, Dean knew he'd gained an ally. He turned, moving back down the darkening tunnel, hoping the other two would follow, hearing the _clink-shft_ of the crossbow two seconds too late.

Griffin's meaty hand slammed Dean's upper arm, shoving him to the side and into the crumbling dirt wall. He heard the big hunter cry out and just before the torch burned out completely, he saw an arrow protruding from Griffin's upper thigh.

"Virge?"

"Dean, get over here. Now." The former paramedic's voice left no room for argument and offered Dean a path through the darkness.

Dean grunted as his side burned with the motion of crawling across the dank tunnel floor. He felt along the ground in the pitch dark, finding a boot, then a leg, feeling his way up Griffin's body until his fingers tripped over the arrow. Griffin cried out and swore.

"Easy," Virgil soothed. "Take it easy, man. We'll get you fixed up, okay?"

The stream of curses Griffin sewed together in reply would have made a sailor blush. Dean reached into the dark, swimming his hand around until he felt Virgil's shoulder.

"I'm here."

"I need light," Virgil replied, finding Dean's hands with his, unfolding Dean's fingers and slapping both his book of matches and Griffin's lighter into his palm.

Dean flicked the Zippo on first, the flame shooting up and illuminating a small circle of black with its amber glow. Dean held the lighter over Griffin's leg, swallowing as he registered the deeply-embedded shaft.

"Had to go and be a hero, huh?" He joked.

"Well…" Griffin gasped. "I figured you… usually have… that ginormatron watching your back…"

"Okay, Griffin, hold still," Virgil ordered.

Dean watched as the paramedic braced the arrow shaft and broke it off near Griffin's thigh. He winced in sympathy as Griffin bit his lip to keep from crying out.

"Why didn't you pull it out?" Dean asked.

The lighter sputtered. Dean flicked it back on, adjusting his grip as the flame heated the pad of his thumb.

"It hit the femoral artery," Virgil said. "He's bleeding bad. Too bad. If I pulled it out, he wouldn't make it out of this tunnel."

"Still here," Griffin grunted.

Virgil pulled a packet of what looked like instant oatmeal from his cargo pants pocket, ripping it open with his teeth and shaking the powdered substance over Griffin's wounded leg.

"Ah! Son of a BITCH!" Griffin cried out, his back arching up as he clenched his fists against the obvious pain.

The familiar, nauseating smell of sulfur twisted Dean's stomach just as the lighter went out once more. Dean flicked it once, twice, then shook it.

"Empty," he announced, lighting one of Virgil's matches with his thumbnail. The light was smaller, but it was better than nothing. "What do you want to do?"

Virgil sat back on his heels, pulling in a breath. "Everything is screaming at me to get him the hell out of here or he's a dead man. But… you're wounded, too, and Brenna… and Sam…"

Dean sucked in his bottom lip, rolling it against his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

"Winchester."

The match burned down to Dean's fingertips, but before he could light another, Griffin's grip found his hand in the dark.

"Yeah."

"You have to finish this, man."

Dean exhaled, then pulled a slow breath into his lungs, searching for energy in that motion.

"You did it once before," Griffin said, his voice tight with pain. "You came through, you and Sam. I didn't want to admit it. I didn't want you to have been right, but you were."

"Dude, don't go all final words on me, here."

"Shut up a minute. I ain't dying. Not here in this tunnel. Not now."

"Well, that's certainly a relief," Dean said dryly. He felt something gathering at the base of his throat, something tight and tense.

"You do this thing. Do it, 'cause… 'cause I need to give something back to my brother."

"There was never a choice, man," Dean said, reaching across in the dark to find Virgil's shoulder once more. "Here," he said, feeling down Virgil's arm for his hand. "Take these." He pushed the matches back in Virgil's grip.

"How are you going to—"

"Hey, I'm making this up as I go along," Dean said. "Besides, if there are more booby traps out there, those matches aren't going to save me. Just… watch out for the land mines."

"Land mines. Right." Virgil nodded.

Between them, they were able to get Griffin on his feet.

"Dean," Virgil said.

"I'll bring her back," Dean promised.

"I know you will," Virgil said. "I just…" he took a breath. "It's always been her choice."

Dean was silent a moment. "Let's worry about that later."

"Later," Virgil agreed as he steered Griffin back the way they came.

Dean watched as a match was lit, the light fading rapidly as the duo moved in halting, lumbering steps back down the mine tunnel.

"Well," Dean whispered to himself as darkness settled around him like a cloak. "This was a great idea."

He reached out for the dirt wall, pressing his arm tight against his burning side and made his way further down the black passageway. He shuffled his feet, searching for the edges of land mines, crawled his fingers through the dirt and along the rock of the wall. The darkness felt palpable, as if it had greedy fingers reaching out to pluck at his hair, stroke his cheek, whisper in his ear.

He'd never truly been afraid of the _dark_, just all the things the dark kept hidden. And he'd seen enough of those things to know that there was a purpose for hiding. He tried to take a deep breath, finding some solace in the fact that no new wounds had appeared since the last one.

"Maybe he's not hurting you anymore, Sammy," he said into the nothing. "Maybe you got loose. Got Brenna out of there. Saved the day. Big damn hero."

The air was starting to feel thicker, as if the blackness gave it texture and weight, making it harder to pull into his body, filter through his over-worked lungs, fuel his oxygen-starved body. Panting, he resumed his conversation with Sam.

"You… uh, you probably told him he was full of shit, didn't you, Sammy? Called him out for the… the freak he is. Not a freak like us, though, right? More of a bites-heads-off-bats and eats-live-chickens freak. We're the good kind of freaks, Sammy…"

Pausing in his ramble, Dean suddenly realized he could hear music. He moved further down the tunnel, straining to hear. Music. Someone was playing loud music.

Loud _emo_ music.

"What is with this town and its weird music fetish…" his voice faded as the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his brain. "Wait… no way… "

He continued forward, squinting his eyes as he realized he could almost see the ground in front of him. A soft glow of amber light drew him onward.

www

"You okay?" Brenna whispered as the wizard stumbled away, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples and mumbling to himself in a tangled mixture of Latin and English.

"No," Sam shook his head, feeling his body tremble with a bone-deep cold, his skin hot as though he were feverish. "No, Brenna, it's Dean."

"You don't know that," Brenna shook her head roughly, her features pale with denial.

"It's _Dean_," Sam spat, turning fierce eyes on her. "He's coming for us, you know he is."

"The spell just isn't working—"

"Yes. It. _IS_." Sam growled, needing her to stop. Needing her to just _stop_. "He's out there, and he's bleeding for me."

Brenna pressed her lips together, her eyes hot and helpless as the wizard's music increased in volume. They looked across the cave to find the small man pacing up by his curtained area, arms out from his sides, hair wild from where he had been running his hands through it.

Sam heard him exclaiming, "I've never been wrong. Not once. And you led me to them. You. LED. ME. TO. THEM!"

"Who is he talking to?" Brenna stage-whispered to him over the music.

"Jacob Marley," Sam retorted. "How the hell should I know?"

"_Don't put your life in someone's hands, they're bound to steal it away. Don't hide your mistakes 'cause they'll find you, burn you…"_

"Can you reach your knife?" Brenna asked.

"I'm trying."

"He's gonna come back," Brenna said anxiously.

"Not helping," Sam grunted.

"Sam—"

"How did you get in here?!"

Sam and Brenna looked up simultaneously at the wizard's exclamation. Sam felt his stomach plummet as his burning eyes lit on the bloody, swaying image of his brother pushing through the curtained opening just inside the wizard's alcove about six feet above them.

"I don't freakin' _believe_ it," he heard Dean exclaim. "It's the goddamn M. E.!"

Sam gaped.

"I did not give you permission to be here!" Adoamros yelled, raising the knife above his head and lunging for Dean.

"DEAN!" Sam yelled just as Dean thrust his arms up to ward off the crazed attack. Sam felt his body tighten, instinctively jerking and ducking as Dean struggled with the small, but powerful wizard.

Sam felt a dizzying effect of vertigo as Dean's foot slipped on the crumbling ledge, his body obviously weakened by his journey to find them. He heard Brenna gasp as Dean fought for balance, then he cried out as his brother lost the fight, slipping from the edge and slamming against a smaller ledge positioned like a stair-step below the wizard's alcove. Sam winced as Dean's head cracked against the cave wall, then flinched as his brother hit the dirt floor and rolling to a rest near Sam's feet, completely, unnaturally still.

"Dean?" Sam called, his voice weak, his body tense as he watched for the reassuring movement of his brother's chest. Dean' face was turned from Sam, but when he saw Dean breathe, Sam shuddered out a trembling breath.

"Now," the wizard exclaimed, "at last I have them."

He jumped down, his feline grace returning as he regained his balance. He pulled out his remote, returning the volume to its previous level as he approached Dean's vulnerable form.

"_If you want to get out alive, run for your life. If you want to get out alive run for..."_

"Stay away from him," Sam bellowed, straining against the metal restraints.

Adoamros laughed softly. "My boy, all I will do is position him. It is _you_ that will end up taking his life."

"Stop!" Brenna begged. "Please, don't… you don't have to do this."

Adoamros gripped Dean's shoulders, lifting him with strength masquerading beneath a façade of fragility. Sam felt a muscle in his jaw tighten as Dean's head dropped back, limp, lifeless. The wizard propped Dean against another support beam, then frowned.

"Seems I may have run out of shackles," he said as if they were short a napkin at a tea party. "No matter," he shrugged, turning from them. "Rope will suffice at this juncture."

"Sam," Brenna whispered. "No matter what happens, get Dean out of here."

Sam tore his eyes from Dean's bloody, sagging form to look at her. "What?!"

"Just… please, trust me, okay?"

"Whatever you're thinking, stop."

Brenna looked over at Dean and Sam watched her lips tremble, her mouth parting as if she was going to say something, but the wizard returned, crouching in front of Dean and binding his hands tightly. Sam felt his heart skip painfully as Dean slid to the side.

"Now then," the wizard said, almost brightly, standing and turning to Sam. "Where were we?"

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It was interesting the clarity that came with complete pain. The fog that had cloaked his immediate perception lifted as his brain fought to remember where he was, how he'd gotten there, and why his body was on fire.

At first, he thought he'd choke on the dry insides of his throat, his cough a weak rattle of air, but then he tried to open his eyes and realized they were suddenly too big for his head.

"Stay away from him!"

_Brenna…_

Her voice compelled him to pry his heavy lids up, fighting the urge to gag as his side stabbed him with a lingering pain intent on keeping him company for awhile. Blinking burning eyes, Dean saw a man, diminutive in stature, but powerful in position, approaching his brother, the diamond-edge blade of a knife poised and ready to slice.

_Why the __**hell**__ didn't I take one of Griffin's knives…_

"Silence, woman," the man muttered. "You are no longer necessary. Remember that."

"The goddamn M.E.," Dean coughed out, diverting the wizard's attention. "Carter, you sly sonuvabitch."

"Dean," Sam said, relief and worry warring for dominance in his voice.

"So, you decided to join us after all," Adoamros smiled. "How nice."

Dean simply stared at him. "Perfect plan, huh? Hide in plain sight, doctor the… autopsy reports…"

Adoamros turned back to Sam.

"How'd you keep fooling the cops?"

"People see who and what they want, when they want," Adoamros replied.

Before Dean could distract him with another question, he jerked his wrist, cutting Sam's upper chest opposite the protective tattoo.

Dean and Sam shouted in simultaneous pain, Dean's head dropping low as blood blossomed, Sam's head falling back as the pain abated.

"No!" Brenna cried, horror plain in her voice. "You don't have to do this! I can help you."

Dean drew his head up, staring hard at her.

"Don't," he barked, his voice ragged.

She ignored him. "Listen to me!"

Adoamros tilted his head at Sam as though choosing a cut of beef.

"Here," he said, slicing Sam's forearm, "and here," cutting a line across Sam's ribs.

"Son of a _bitch!_" Dean gasped while Sam's litany of curses dripped as crimson as the blood that saturated what was left of Dean's shirt. The brothers panted, pain spinning Dean's head, blood loss making him shiver.

"It won't work!" Brenna yelled. "You can't have his soul!"

Adoamros looked over at her. "What do you mean?"

"Brenna," Dean gasped, barely able to raise his head. "Don't… please…"

"His soul doesn't belong to him anymore," Brenna said, pulling her legs close, surreptitiously attempting to protect her exposed body as the wizard took a step away from Sam. "He gave it up. He gave it up to save his brother."

Adoamros scowled fiercely at Sam. "Is this true?"

"Some wizard," Sam panted weakly, his sweaty bangs clinging to his forehead as he looked up at the man's wild eyes. "Can't even pin us to the wall… have to use cuffs… I've beaten better _witches_ than you."

"Shut up, boy, or your tongue will be next."

"Thought you wanted to have _fun_," Sam taunted. Dean watched him, breathing shallowly to ward off the pain, silently willing him to continue as long as he could, to distract the wizard from Brenna and whatever her crazy plan was. "Thought you had all the answers."

"Or maybe your throat," Adoamros narrowed his eyes, angling the blade at Sam's jugular.

"Doesn't matter," Sam said. "You'll lose. You kill me, kill my brother, and you'll still lose."

"No," Adoamros cried, lunging closer. "No, he wouldn't have led me astray. You are the last. You must be the _last_."

Sam licked his bottom lip, his eyes meeting Dean's over the wizard's shoulder. Dean saw in that harried, exhausted gaze a look of honest gratitude. It surged through him, offering him renewed strength that was steadily seeping from him as he bled out from the supernatural effects of the wizard's spell.

"She was right," Sam said, still looking at Dean. "He gave up his soul. For me."

"No!" Adoamros raged, lunging forward with the knife.

Sam flinched away, drawing his legs up quickly to knock the wizard off balance, deflecting what would have been a deep stab into his belly to a slice across his thigh. Dean screamed in pain, hearing his brother's own cry echoing his, drowning out the ever-present sound of the wizard's music, drowning out the shout of denial from Brenna, drowning out the sound of his own heart.

"Stop!" Brenna cried. "No more!"

Dean felt the heat before he registered what had happened. Slumped to his side, his lower back pressed against the support beam, his wounded shoulder and damaged body spilling blood onto the dirt floor of the cave, Dean saw the darkness chased away by a surge of light. He blinked in surprise, not comprehending at first. He saw Sam duck instinctively. He saw the wizard stumble backwards, landing on his rear and catching himself with his hands, his mouth agape.

Then he saw Brenna.

Her eyes were predatory wide, her face pale, her shackled hands spread, fingers trembling. He realized then what she'd done; it had happened before, back at Declan's bar before the IRA burned it to the ground. Glass had shattered as a surge of power shot from Brenna without control. This time, though, it appeared she'd focused the power surge, spreading the fire from the lit candles to catch the wicks on the dormant ones and surrounding them with heat and light.

"What… what…" the wizard sputtered.

"Take me," Brenna said, her voice oddly calm. "Leave them, and take me. Together we will bring him back."

"Brenna, no," Dean pleaded. "No, don't do this."

"How is this possible?" Adoamros stood, clutching the dagger tightly. "How are _you_ possible."

"I was born this way," Brenna replied.

"Brenna," Dean whispered, unable to do more than lift his head. He was spinning, his body sinking, shaking, weakening.

She met his eyes, and he saw her. Just her, no powers, no sight, no druid history. For one heartbeat of time he once more felt her lips brush his skin, heard the promise in her sigh, lost himself inside of her.

"A chuisle mo chroí," she whispered.

"Don't you do that," Dean growled. "Don't you dare say goodbye to me."

"No," Sam cried, desperate, angry. "She's crazy. She's lying. She can't help you."

"You realize they are already gone," Adoamros said quietly, his eyes on Brenna, his back to Sam.

Dean could see the man's profile, see him weighing his options, see that he was, in fact, completely sane in this moment.

"Gone?" Brenna choked out.

"The spell has already taken hold," the wizard gestured to Dean. "He is bleeding out. He won't last much longer. And then the other will no longer wish to live. Not after seeing his… brother… perish."

"No," Brenna sobbed. "Just… take me. Make it stop."

Adoamros lifted a shoulder. "I will take you," he nodded, "but I cannot stop it. The spell has been cast; their fates are sealed."

"No!" Brenna bucked against her bonds as the wizard drew closer. "No, not again. Not again!"

"Brenna," Dean called, drawing her eyes. "You _fight_!"

"You said it had already happened," she cried, flinging herself away from Adoamros as he released her wrists from the shackles, her arms falling uselessly to her sides, her circulation cut off. "You said what I saw was the _past_."

Dean's heart caught at the base of his throat, and he struggled to push himself up on his elbow, his arm shaking, his vision swimming. "You _fight!_"

Brenna kicked out at the wizard, trying to crawl away. Dean saw her try without success to raise her arms in defense as the wizard reached for her. Cursing, bucking, biting, she fought, but he was stronger.

"Dean," she sobbed as the wizard gathered her up, throwing her over his shoulder.

"I'm gonna find you," Dean promised. "I'll find you."

Adoamros turned toward him, Brenna held tightly in his grip, and pulled the small remote from his pocket, silencing the relentless music. "Not in this lifetime you won't."

With that, he turned, stepped into a shadowed alcove and was gone.

For a moment, neither brother moved. Gravity exerted its will against Dean, pulling his rapidly weakening body to the ground with a stifled cry.

"Sam," he mumbled as the candles burned around them.

"Yeah," Sam replied, his voice ragged, his breathing shallow.

Dean tried to swallow, coughed instead, then groaned, "No matter what, you better not just give up and stop living."

"No, man, no… you're not… don't you give in, Dean."

Dean tried to find his brother in the soft light, tried to focus on the direction Sam's voice was coming from, but the world was a blur of muted colors and dying light, the edges of his vision graying out and caving in like a collapsing tunnel.

"No regrets, Sammy," he slurred. "I'd do it 'gain, all 'f it."

"NO!" Sam cried, for one moment jarring his vision clear. "You do _not_ decide to die, Dean. Don't trust the pain, okay? Don't you believe it. It isn't real."

Dean swallowed, licking his dry lips sluggishly, the coppery smell of his own blood strong in his nostrils. "Think 'ts pretty damn real, Sammy…"

"Dean…"

"Beat 'em after all, bastr'ds," he smiled weakly, closing his eyes. "Din't get me, Sammy… Din't get me."

The last sound he registered before the edges around him closed in completely was the sound of his brother sobbing his name.

www

"Goddammit, Dean! Don't you fuckin' do this! You don't!"

Sam had been scrambling to get the tip of his knife blade into position since Brenna started distracting the wizard.

"DEAN! Open your damn eyes right the _hell now_!"

He'd nicked the palm of his hand and the inside of his wrist so many times at this point, his arms were sliding inside the bindings on his own blood. He closed his eyes, unable to see the limp, blood-soaked form of his brother lying so near him, yet still too far away. He pictured the lock, positioning the point of the blade into the ancient hole better suited for a skeleton key than a Hibben throwing knife.

"It can't be real, Dean," he said, more to keep himself focused than with any real hope that his too-still brother could hear him. "It's a spell. Spells can be broken. _We _can break them." _Twist, slip, turn, press_. "Like the bruises, man. The bruises from the dream. Don't believe it."

He almost stopped breathing when he felt the lock give, the clasp on his right wrist falling away. His mantra of _don't believe it, don't believe it_ slapped him in the face as he flipped around to unlock his left hand and felt the pull of his sliced skin stretch painfully with the movement. The benefit of sight sped up the process and in moments he was free and scrambling over to Dean on arms that trembled from strain and tingled from loss of circulation.

"Hey, man," Sam sliced the bindings from Dean's wrists, dropping the knife and the ropes in a pile next to them. "I'm here, okay, I'm here."

He winced, hissing in pain as his own wounds protested harshly when he pulled Dean's pliant form up, uselessly looking for something to press his hand against and stop the blood that still flowed freely from Dean's limp body.

"Please, man, not yet, okay?" Sam felt the tears burn the back of his eyes as he helplessly cradled Dean's head against the hollow of his shoulder, his brother's blood quickly soaking his own torn shirt and dirty jeans. "We've got time. We still have time. I'm not ready, Dean."

Sam found it impossible to swallow past the lump in his throat and curled around his brother as a sob tumbled loose. He tucked Dean's head beneath his chin and began to rock slowly, fighting a useless battle against angry, helpless tears. His body thrummed with aches deeper than his bruised, bloody wrists, deeper than the bizarrely blood-free slices on his arms, leg, and torso. It was an ache that no balm could heal.

"I can feel you breathing, Dean," he said softly, his voice a weak plea. "If you're breathing, you're alive. Okay? You're alive. You keep breathing. With me, okay? We'll do it together. Dean?"

Dean's breath continued to shudder shallowly against Sam's bared chest, skimming the cuts and slices left behind by the diamond blade.

"I ever tell you how I used to do that when we were little?" Sam continued to rock, holding his brother's too-pale face close to him, gripping his body tightly. "I'd wake up, and I wouldn't know if Dad was there or not. And I couldn't remember what town we were in, or what hotel. But you, man, you were always there. And I'd breathe with you. Slow and easy. Steady, like now. I'd match my breath to yours until I fell asleep."

Sam moved his free hand to the slick, sticky mess that was Dean's chest, resting it there and feeling the clammy texture of his brother's skin beneath his hand.

"Slow and easy, man."

Time slipped past, fluid, invisible, controlling everything with relentless patience, folding around Sam as he fought for purchase on the slippery slope of his emotions. He felt the weight of his brother in his arms, felt the cool of Dean's skin, felt the subtle tremble that shook through Dean's weakened body.

"Sam?"

His voice was barely audible, but to Sam it was as if Dean had shouted in his ear.

"Hey," Sam said, looking down as a renegade tear dripped from the tip of his nose and splashed against Dean's cheek. "Hey, man."

"'s it… raining?"

"No, we're in the cave, Dean."

"Cave?"

"Remember? Freaky wizard? Spell? Knife?"

Dean's eyelids fluttered as he fought to open them. "Brenna…"

"He took her, Dean."

Dean groaned, pushing weakly against Sam. "'m bleedin'."

"Yeah, I know, man."

"Not real, 's it?"

Sam grabbed that statement like a lifeline, rubbing Dean's blood-soaked chest with the flat of his hand, trying to restore warmth to the chilled skin beneath his.

"No, Dean, it's not real. It's the spell."

"Cut you."

Sam nodded, though Dean's eyes weren't yet opened. He hadn't thought about that. If Dean stopped bleeding, would he start?

"I'll be okay."

Dean opened his eyes at that. "How do you know?" he asked, his voice steady, his eyes clearing as he pinned Sam with a _no bullshit_ look.

"I… I don't know for sure. But…" Sam shrugged with helpless hope, "if you believe you'll stop bleeding, I'll believe I won't start."

"That makes about as much sense as any of this."

Sam pulled Dean's tattered shirt open, swallowing at the slick sound the blood made as the material pulled away from his brother's skin. Rolling Dean to him, he tugged the sleeve free, wiping a patch of skin clean, and breathing out with shuddering gratitude when it wasn't immediately resurfaced with red.

"They hurt?" Dean asked. He still hadn't moved away from Sam, content, it seemed, to lay in the safety of his brother's grip.

"They sting, that's for sure."

"Feel like crap," Dean whispered, his eyes sliding closed again.

"Don't look much better," Sam said, sniffing. "Even if we… somehow stop this bleeding, you lost a helluva lot of blood, Dean. We have to get you to a hospital."

"We gotta find her first," Dean protested, his eyes snapping open.

"Hey, man, you're in no shape to—"

"Sam, please," Dean said, pushing against his brother, trying to sit up on his own, and failing. "Please, help me find her. I can't… I can't lose someone else." He closed his eyes, then after a breath, opened them, staring up at Sam. "I can't," he repeated.

Sam nodded, feeling his heart constrict at the need he saw in his brother's eyes. He pressed the palm of his hand back onto Dean's chest, covering his brother's heart.

"We'll get her, man," he promised softly. "We'll get her."

It was a struggle, but Sam managed to climb to his feet, groaning as he hauled Dean up on legs as shaky as a newborn colt. Dean leaned heavily on him, swaying dangerously even with his support.

"You came alone?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean shook his head. "No, I brought friends."

"Where are they?" Sam grunted as he gripped Dean's arm and held him tightly, propelling them both slowly forward.

"With any luck, waiting for us on the outside."

Sam felt his stomach sink as his brother trembled against him. "In my experience, there's no such thing as luck."

* * *

a/n: Thanks to everyone who has followed me thus far. I have this story fairly mapped out now: seven chapters. The next two will be similar in length to this, with an epilogue to close it out. **Tara**, there's a scene in here dedicated to you. I hope you recognize it. If not, then, um, pretend I didn't say anything.

Playlist:

_Touched_ by VAST

_Alive_ by Pearl Jam

_Fall of Man _by Matthew Good Band

_Get Out Alive_ by Three Days Grace (Phoenix, if you're reading, you'd love this one)

Translations:

_A chuisle mo chroí_. Pulse of my heart.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1. _**Note:**_** Violence, potentially disturbing images, and language in this chapter.**

**a/n**: Thanks so much for reading and for your wonderful, thoughtful reviews. It's through the thoughts expressed in one such review that I bring you this note. When conceiving this story, and thinking of the bond between the brothers, I held the Gaelic word _dl__ú__thchara_ in my mind. It means "close friend, rarest friend." It's the Irish way of saying soul's mate. "Soulmate" is a modern term. I'm told that Europeans tend to interpret it to mean "close friends," while Americans tend to interpret it to mean "fated lovers."

I tell you that so you understand at no time did I plan to or intend to insinuate a love between the brothers that was anything other than a rare connection. Some people believe that souls are literally made and/or fated to be the mates of each other, or to play certain other important roles in each other's lives. I hope that makes sense and that as you continue to read, and hopefully enjoy, you see the pieces I attempted to put into place so that through the next three chapters, the puzzle slides into place and the picture becomes clear. If not, please tell me so that I can do better for you next time.

**a/n 2**: After I got this beta'd by someone with a bit more medical experience than me (which isn't hard since I have _none_), I realized I should remind ya'll that I've made _everything_ up in this fic. I have decided to lean on the sturdy wall that is fiction and tell a story that could, in the realm of reality, probably never happen.

Kelly, thank you for your efforts. Ash, you're the shoulder I needed when I was weak. T, if I had a shrine, I'd light a candle for you.

* * *

_The anger swells in my guts and I won't feel these slices and cuts; I want so much to open your eyes, 'cause I need you to look into mine…_

_Open Your Eyes, Snow Patrol_

www

The song was wrong.

Brother or not, Dean was damn heavy. Sam's shoulders ached from the strain of being bound for so long, and the added weight of Dean's arm felt like the yolk of a burden he wasn't sure he was strong enough to carry. He felt Dean working to move his feet the few steps they'd taken away from the support beams Adoamros had tied them to, but blood loss had made his limbs uncooperative and Sam had to readjust his tenuous hold on his brother's side.

"You came in from… from up there," Sam said, peering up through the wavering candlelight to the heavy velvet curtain, the wetness from Dean's body chilling his skin. "I don't know if we can—Dean? Dean!"

The weight against his side and in his arms suddenly increased and Sam stumbled, grabbing for Dean. Going to his knee, Sam grappled with slick, bloody limbs as Dean's head fell back revealing closed eyes in a pale, bruised face.

"Aw, no," Sam shook his head, balancing his brother in his grip. He reached up and tapped Dean's face. "No, no, no, man. You stay with me. Dean? Dean! C'mon, open your eyes, man. I need you right now, okay?"

Dean's eyelids fluttered and Sam felt the trembling in his brother's body increase to full-on shivering. Swallowing hard, Sam shifted, sliding Dean into the hollow of his arms and easing him down, hissing as the sliced, broken skin on his thigh and sides pulled with the movement. Using his free hand, Sam felt for his brother's pulse. It was racing.

"Hey," Sam said, tapping Dean's cheek again. "Hey, Dean, c'mon, man. I need your help to get out of this cave, okay? I can't do this by myself."

Dean's lips moved in a slow, sluggish breath of muted sound.

"What?" Sam leaned closer, his ear centimeters from Dean's mouth. "What was that?"

"Y-yes… you can."

"Yeah, well," Sam pushed out through chilled, numb lips, "I don't want to." He swallowed again, the sour taste of panic at the back of his throat as the impact of his words rested heavy on his tongue.

He used the pad of his thumb and brushed some of the cave dirt from Dean's face, knowing the truth of those words went far beyond this moment.

He felt the muscles in Dean's back and belly tighten with effort as his brother forced his eyes open once more, the pupils wide with shock and pain. Dean's shivering had become visible in the moments since he'd begged Sam to help him find Brenna.

_Gotta get him help…_

"Cold," Dean said, frowning as he tried to wrap his arms around his bloody chest.

"I know," Sam said, looking up and around. "You're going into shock, I think. Gotta keep you warm."

Carefully sliding his arm from beneath Dean, Sam stood, his eyes on the bedding covering the ledge about six feet above him. Just above that ledge was the opening Dean had emerged from. Sam looked down at his brother, watching his gore-covered body tremble, and knew that there was no way they were escaping the way Dean had arrived.

"I'll be right back," he said.

"I'll… just w-wait… here," Dean quipped, closing his eyes.

"Don't go to sleep on me," Sam ordered, reaching up for a hand-hold and pulling himself painfully to the next outcropping. The cut across his side stabbed ruthlessly and he muttered a curse, pressing his hand on the exposed meat of his skin, fully expecting to remove a blood-covered hand.

When he saw his hand was clean, he looked over his shoulder at Dean, unable to tell if his brother was bleeding again or not. Sucking in a breath through clenched teeth, Sam scrambled to the ledge. He rifled through the bedding and removed an old Army blanket, tossing it to the cave floor.

Turning around, he slid down the ledge, landing in a crouch, then grabbed the blanket as he made his way over to Dean. He worked the other sleeve of Dean's tattered shirt free, then carefully smoothed the gray blanket across Dean's bare, blood-stained shoulders. He saw with a degree of fear that new blood leaked from Dean's side. Pulling his lip in and catching it between his teeth, Sam looked up, meeting Dean's pain-saturated eyes.

"Dean—"

"I know," Dean whispered. "Damn strong… spell."

"I'm trying to remember what he said," Sam confessed. "It was all Latin, but I… I wasn't paying close enough attention. I'm sorry, man. I should have—"

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"There's… an elevator."

"Huh?"

Dean closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. "Saw it… from the outside. Elevator."

Sam rested his hand on Dean's arm, rocking back on his heels. Thinking back, he pictured Adoamros lifting Brenna over his shoulder and disappearing into the shadows. Wincing with the movement, his body starting to feel hollowed-out, Sam stood and moved to where he'd last seen the wizard.

"There's an opening here," he called back to Dean. "Looks like it… yeah, there's a tunnel or something."

He turned, feeling the chill of the cave make itself at home under his skin. Stumbling as he moved back to Dean, Sam pressed his hand against his heart, feeling a sudden, sluggish beat that sent his head spinning.

"What the hell?" he wondered aloud.

"Sam."

"Comin'," Sam said softly, rubbing his chest through his opened shirt and tentatively palpating the slices in his skin.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked as Sam cupped the back of his neck, easing him into a sitting position.

Sam lifted a brow. "What's _wrong_? Really?"

"With… you." Dean shivered.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, the wizard's rant clear in his head. …_the spell is specific: one must be the weapon, the other the wound. The pain is felt by both, but while one bleeds the other is helpless and to save sanity, pleads for it to simply be over…_

"We gotta break this spell, man," Sam said, one hand still on Dean's neck, the other, pulling the blanket tighter around Dean's shoulders. "It's… it's not enough to just… _not_ believe."

"You're kidding," Dean deadpanned, looking for a moment like the smart-ass brother Sam truly needed in this moment.

Sam laughed, hearing the sob under the desperate humor and nodded once before lifting Dean to a wavering stance.

"Can you walk?"

"Bear… woods… you get the idea," Dean coughed once, wincing and Sam felt a stab of pain cut through his own chest. "Sam?" Dean reached for him as Sam stumbled forward. "Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam drew in a breath. "We need to move. Now."

"'Kay." Dean nodded, shuffling forward, the blanket and bowed shoulders shrinking him in the candlelight. "Lead on."

"Right," Sam put an arm around his brother's trembling shoulders. "Like you're going to be able to make it two steps without help."

"I'm… st-stronger than you th-think," Dean stuttered through chattering teeth.

"Dude, you're the strongest person I know," Sam said as he moved them into the shadows just outside the entry to the tunnel. "But you're not Superman."

"Says… who?" Dean pressed, his body weight shifting against Sam despite his obvious efforts to remain self-propelled.

"Clark Kent," Sam returned.

"'S okay… like Batman… better."

"Save your strength, man."

"Nothin' to… save," Dean said, his voice a raspy whisper. "Keep… talking."

"Why?" Sam asked, then realized that for the last few minutes he'd not felt the pain of his slices and cuts. He almost stopped moving, his surprise was so great. They crossed the threshold from the candlelit cave to the complete darkness of the tunnel and he whistled in appreciation. "Okay, so, yeah… an elevator, huh?"

"Watch out… land mines," Dean said, then groaned and stumbled.

Sam tightened his grip, working to ignore the heat that was building in the cut on his thigh. "_Land mines_?"

"Griffin… almost tripped one… way in."

"You think this guy would booby-trap his own escape route?"

"Dude… thinks he's a… wizard."

"Where would he get land mines?"

"Dad… had 'em."

Sam nodded, remembering the plethora of items hidden away in that secret storage unit. It was a prime example of _where there's a will, there's a way_.

"It's dark in here," Sam said, just to be talking. "Like, really dark. Can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark. Boogeyman dark."

"I get the idea, Sam," Dean grumbled.

"Where's your Zippo?"

They bounced slightly against the tunnel wall, straightening their direction with dual hisses of pain.

"Dunno," Dean confessed. "Needed it earlier. Didn't have it."

"Huh."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You w-wonder… why… he didn't t-tell us?"

"Who?" Sam frowned, peering ahead and feeling with his free hand along the dirt wall. He could barely make out a light from what looked like a vertical shaft ahead of them. "Tell us what?"

"Dad."

"Dad?"

Out of the blue, the memory of the softness in his dad's voice as he stood on the other side of Dean's hospital bed asking him for a cup of caffeine cut through Sam like a physical pain.

"Yeah."

Dean's voice was fading, wavering like the sound of a water faucet being slowly turned off. Sam tightened his grip once more, trying to absorb some of the shaking, and took a few more steps toward the wan light.

"You mean… about his deal?"

"Deal?" Dean tripped, then caught himself. "No… the storage unit."

"Oh."

The light was right in front of them, shining like muted starlight down into an alcove. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, setting his brother against the wall and scanning the tunnel for something that looked like a call button. As he stepped away, moving his hand from its support on Dean's chest, he saw his brother's knees buckle and Dean slid to the ground, barely keeping himself from face-planting in the cave dirt.

"Dean—"

"'M fine," Dean slurred, pushing himself more or less upright. "Look …for a rope."

"Rope?"

"'S a pulley system."

Dean coughed again, and Sam braced himself against the wall and doubled over as a phantom pain lit his wounds on fire.

"Shit," he breathed, then began to drag his fingers along the walls looking for the rope that would lower the elevator.

The air from the shaft above spilled hot and heavy, reminding Sam that the cool of the cave was actually a respite from the unnatural heat, which seemed to have only increased during his time below ground. His fingers tripped across the rough hemp of the thick rope and he grinned.

"Found it."

Silence met his announcement and he looked over his shoulder.

"Dean!"

"Mm."

"You there?"

"Where… else'd I be?"

"Talk to me."

"Tired, Sam."

"I know you're tired. Talk to me anyway."

"'Bout what?"

Sam's brain was fuzzy, tripping over thought and matching the hollow, puppet-like sensation of his heavy limbs. Time folded for a moment, forcing him to lean forward, his forehead against the crumbling stone and dirt of the alcove wall. Voices echoed in his head, adding to the lingering dizziness that threatened to take him to his knees.

He heard his own voice whispering memories of breathing with Dean to calm himself. He heard his dad's voice talking them through an escape from social services—a fate worse than any hunt gone wrong. He heard Dean's voice on the other end of his phone telling him he was proud. He heard the cry of pain that he'd been unable to voice echoing in the sound of his own name as it ripped a bloody path on its escape from his brother's mouth.

He heard Dean say _one year_.

"Talk," he choked out, clearing his throat and fighting away the vertigo, "talk about Dad."

Two heartbeats of silence were enough to bring Sam's head up. He looked over at Dean's slumped form and for one agonizing moment feared the worst as he saw the starlight illuminate Dean's pale face, parted lips, and opened eyes staring at nothing.

Then, Dean blinked and Sam's world began to turn on its axis once more.

"He never… mentioned it. All… that talk about… need to know… shoot first… ask questions later…" Dean grunted slightly, the last words hissing out on a breath of escaped pain, "never was a later…"

Sam wrapped his long fingers around the rope, working to ignore the fact that he couldn't really _feel_ the rope against his skin. Instead, he could feel himself tipping backwards to a dark abyss that no deal, no sacrifice of soul, no stay of execution would save him from.

The elevator platform was lowered on a dual rope system. One rope had to be pulled from the anchoring and then fed upwards while the other lowered or raised the platform. Clenching his jaw, Sam yanked on the rope, pulling it from the anchor, feeling a catch far above him and the slack in his grip contrasting with the release of another rope stretched alongside the one in his hands.

"Tells me he's proud of me…" Dean was saying, his voice undulating between tightly wound vocals and breathy whispers, telling Sam that his brother was far enough gone that he didn't realize what he was saying, or perhaps that he was even speaking aloud. "Tells me… tells me I did good… never said that before… never was a later, though… never got a chance to ask…"

Sam kept silent, mourning the loss of chances with his dad with as much quiet pain as he heard in his brother's confession. He fed the rope upwards, listening to the ancient creek of gears as the platform well above their heads began to crawl slowly downward.

"Pictures… Sammy, he had pictures," Dean continued, and Sam saw him begin to slip a little further toward the ground. "Of all of us… from… from a long time… 'go…"

"Dean?"

"Never said… had it the whole time…"

"Hey! Hey, Dean!"

Dean seemed to sink a little into the wall and Sam's feeling of disconnect amplified. The rope slipped through Sam's numb hands and he fell to his knees, his body fighting his will in a battle for survival.

"No…" he whispered. "Not… yet."

Sam looked up, staring blankly at the rapidly descending elevator platform, confused by what was happening as his heart thudded hard and heavy with slowing rhythm. Something inside him screamed for him to move, that danger was eminent, but he was so tired, so tired…

_A soul can be sacrificed, can be given willingly to save another…_

Brenna's rebellious cry echoed so loudly in his head that Sam blinked, looking around, expecting her to be standing in front of him. The movement, the awareness was just enough to propel him out of the way as the elevator platform reached the bottom, thudding against the stone and dirt floor with a cacophonous retort of wood and metal. Sam flinched, covering his ears, his body curled into a position of protection.

_A soul can be sacrificed…_

"That's it," he breathed. "That's it!"

Rolling to his knees, Sam crawled to the shivering form of his brother. He grabbed the front of the blanket and dragged Dean up and close to him. It seemed strangely silent in the wake of the blast from the crashing platform. The air from the open shaft wrapped them in a steamy, suffocating heat, and the muted starlight shone significantly brighter without the barricade of the platform to filter its power.

Dean's head hung back limply, his throat flashing with his rapid pulse. The shudder of his body shook the blanket in Sam's hands, but he ignored it, cupping his brother's neck and pulling his face toward him.

"Listen," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper as need sapped the strength of his demand. "It can't get you, Dean."

Wincing as another phantom pain struck him, this time on his upper arm, Sam shook Dean slightly. "And if it can't get you, then it won't get me."

He felt Dean catch his breath.

"You don't own your soul anymore. That's what Brenna was trying to say…" Sam's voice faded slightly as he spoke her name, fear and guilt warring for dominance in his consciousness. "That freakin' Harry Potter wannabe couldn't have you 'cause you already gave your soul up."

Sam's voice cracked as the very real pain of time slipping away from them and the knowledge that the person he loved most in this world may be gone sped his sluggish heart.

"And if the souls are paired… if it's a set that he needs… then he can't have me, either."

"Still… bleedin'…"

Sam nodded, encouraged by any modicum of sound from Dean's lips, though his brother's eyes remained closed. "Yeah, I know, man, believe me. These cuts, they hurt like a bitch, but… I think…"

He watched Dean's eyes roll beneath his closed lids, noticing the starlight start to fade from silver to a warmer bronze as twilight slid between the dominating gods of night and day.

"I think I remember some of his spell," Sam said, shuffling forward on his knees so that Dean rested against him, his back to Sam's front. "The spells in Dad's boxes… they were repeated a lot. I mean, you would say the same thing with different purpose and, something else would happen…"

"Swell," Dean grumbled. "That mean… we can… un-exorcise… a demon?"

"I don't remember what the spells were for, or if all of them were repeated, but I think maybe… maybe if I repeat some of his spell, y'know, and just reverse some key phrases, maybe this will stop."

"Hunt's fulla maybes," Dean sighed.

Sam closed his eyes, his head dropping forward tiredly until his chin rested on the top of Dean's head. _Maybe the knife will save him… maybe Dad meant to tell us about the storage unit… maybe Brenna was a hunter… maybe…_

"We gotta believe in something, man," Sam said. _Or __**not**__ believe… _

"C-can't st-stop shaking," Dean confessed.

"I got you," Sam tightened his grip. "I won't let go."

He felt Dean draw a breath. Then another. The space between each one tangled Sam's stomach in knots.

"Dean?"

"You start bleeding… 'm gonna kick… your ass."

Sam nodded, taking this to be the closest thing to _go for it_ that he was going to get. Closing his eyes once more, he pictured Adoamros hovering over him, stroking the diamond-studded blade down his chest, muttering. He focused his memory on the wizard's lips, trying to read them, trying to remember…

_Soul to soul… bound by fate… I torture to free… _

"Did… you just say… _crucio_?" Dean's raspy voice broke in.

"Yeah."

"Dude… what a freak…"

"He was in love with his brother," Sam revealed.

Dean stiffened, and Sam realized saying that while Dean essentially lay in his arms was probably not the best timing. "I think he was… talking to him."

"To… his brother?"

"Yeah. I think he thought his brother chose the victims."

Dean was silent for a moment. "Maybe he did."

Sam knew that he had to turn one phrase around, had to stop what the spell had started. He breathed shallowly, hoping as his lips formed the words that he was reversing the right phrase, using the right rhythm, making the right choice.

_Blood of blood… bound to me… soul to soul I set you free_…

"Jesus…_Christ_," Dean gasped, his eyes flying open, his head pressing back against Sam's shoulder as his back arched, his body bowing up in a taut reaction to pain. "Fuck me… what the hell, Sam?"

Sam felt nothing, not even the sting of the cuts that had been burning just moments before. Hastily, he looked down at his side where the worst of the wounds were and saw that it was still there, still pulled wide, still wet and raw, but blood-free.

"_Ah_!" Dean cried out, his shaking increasing until Sam all but lost his grip on the blanket, parting it to reveal a flash of his brother's skin.

"_Oh, you gotta be kidding me_," Sam breathed watching with horror as Dean's skin parted in a gash as deep and long as the one on Sam's side.

Sam slid from beneath his brother and laid Dean's jerking form flat on the ground, searching hastily in the growing dawn light that filtered down through the elevator shaft for more wounds, knowing exactly where they would be.

He could feel the heat from the wound on Dean's thigh, though his brother's jeans stayed intact. He opened the blanket completely and watched with horror as each slice, each cut from his body was mirrored in the gore on Dean's bare chest as his brother writhed in agony.

"Dean!" Sam's hands hovered, unsure where to touch, what to hold, how to stop the mess that he'd apparently created.

"Burnin'!"

"What? What's burning?"

"Me," Dean panted, rolling to his side and looking as if he were going to push to his knees, unable to get his trembling arms beneath him. "Son of a _bitch!_"

"I don't know… I don't know what to do!" Sam rested his hand on the wound on Dean's side, only then realizing that while the skin had split, the wound was not bleeding. "Wait… wait…"

"Aw, fuck," Dean panted. "_Fuck!_"

The heat of Dean's skin beneath Sam's hand was dangerous, a fever causing Dean's body to spasm violently. Sam pressed his other hand on another visible slice, pressing down on the wound.

"The weapon and the wound," he muttered to himself. "There's always two… there's always two…"

"Sam, _God_, make it stop," Dean pleaded, his voice barely above a strangled whisper. "Un-do whatever you did."

"No, wait… wait, man, I think it's working. Hang on, Dean. You can do it."

Dean's hand reached up, his palm slapping against Sam's bicep, his fingers twisting tightly into the loose material of his shirt, gripping as if letting go would mean a fall into his own chasm.

"That's it," Sam encourage, not daring to remove his hands from Dean's body. "That's it, hang on. Dean, listen, it's getting better. Can you feel it? You're cooling down."

"Holy _shit_." Dean pressed his eyes closed, his face pale and taut, his jaw muscle jumping in time with his visibly racing pulse.

"There's always two, Dean."

"Wh-what the hell does th-that mean?"

"It means that… that I'm cut, you bleed, right? So… reverse it and the wounds show up to match your bleeding."

"Fuck's sake, Sam… get to th-the good part…"

"They're healing, Dean."

Dean started to breathe again, slow, easy breaths, working to calm himself, working to combat the obvious pain.

"You… bleedin'?"

Sam shook his head, though his brother's eyes were still closed. "And risk getting my ass kicked? Not on your life."

"'s better…"

"See?"

Sam released one of the wounds, reaching for his brother's fisted hand, digging his fingers into Dean's grip and holding on tight. Before his eyes, the slices in Dean's skin started to seal, pulling together as if by invisible stitches. Dean cried out once more, but then clenched his jaw, holding himself inhumanly still as the spell worked its magic.

Sam looked down at his own wounds; still visible, but slowly beginning to seal from the inside out. And no blood. He breathed a small sigh of relief. At least he was strong enough to get his brother out of there.

"Dean?"

"Mm?"

"Try to relax, man."

"Bite me," Dean muttered through clenched teeth.

Sam grinned. "Not really my thing, man."

Dean huffed out a weedy laugh, his body shaking weakly as he relaxed his muscles incrementally. Sam grabbed the edges of the blanket, wrapping it close around Dean's bare shoulders, then carefully helped Dean to a sitting position. The spell reversal worked to stop the bleeding, and apparently the pain-tolerance connection, but it didn't reverse the damages already inflicted.

Sam could still feel the warm air from above skim across his open wounds in a stinging reminder that flesh that wasn't meant to be uncovered was gaping. Dean's pale features and trembling limbs exposed a body weakened through blood loss and pain.

The rising sun caught on a piece of metal above them and shone a beam down to spear the ground between them, sending motes of dirt and dust into the air and giving Sam a gauze-like filter through which to view his brother.

"He said the soul couldn't be feely given."

"Huh?" Dean lifted a brow, opening one eye to regard Sam.

"The wizard. He said the soul had to be taken… it couldn't be freely given."

"He's full of shit, Sam," Dean said softly, closing his eyes, his expression screaming that he knew where Sam was headed with his line of thinking and was trying to deflect the questions with a wall of resistance.

"Yeah? You sure about that?"

"I made a deal, Sam. Same as Dad."

"You're saying it just took your word—"

"I'm saying it took my _will_." Dean opened his eyes, his voice ragged, but no longer breathy and shaking. "I'm saying I did it freely. I'm saying that punk-ass M.E. is eight kinds of crazy and has lived too long. I'm saying no one took anything from me that I wasn't ready to give up."

"Then."

"What?"

"You were ready to give it up _then_. Until you realized what it meant," Sam said, sitting back on his heels, a dizzying hallucination of John's soft eyes swimming over Dean's wounded ones staring back at him.

"Even then."

"Even when you said you didn't want to go to Hell?"

"There's a difference, Sam." Dean looked up, his eyes skimming the length of the elevator shaft, looking as if he just realized where they were. "I _don't _want to go to Hell. But, given the chance, I wouldn't choose differently."

"Why?" Sam asked softly.

"Because the world is a better place with you in it."

It was such a simple statement said with such honest belief that Sam was unable to breathe for a moment. He looked away, licked his lips, then looked back. Dean was watching him, seemingly unable to do more than that.

"C'mon," Sam said finally, his head feeling more solid, his body less number. Gone was the sensation that nothing was holding him to the ground. "Let's get out of here."

He pushed himself to his feet, reaching down and pulling Dean up. Dean tried, he did, but his body had been through hell, and Sam was simply waiting for the moment when the blood loss would steal Dean's consciousness. He held Dean tight, moving him forward with soft, encouraging words, then eased him down on the elevator platform, far enough from the outer edge that he wouldn't scrape against the walls.

"You sure you can do this?" Dean asked, blinking slowly, looking up at Sam through heavy-lidded eyes. His fight for awareness was visible.

"No," Sam confessed, grabbing the rope, and sliding his eyes up the length of the shaft. "But I don't really want to stay down here until someone figures out we're missing."

"Good point," Dean closed his eyes.

"Stay with me, okay?"

"I'm here."

Sam pulled on the rope, raising the platform incrementally. "Think there's any way Griffin might find us?"

"Griffin's hurt," Dean said, as if just remembering. "Sinatra took him out of the other tunnel."

"How hurt?"

Dean opened his eyes, regarding Sam wordlessly.

"Oh," Sam said softly.

"It's worse than that," Dean sighed. "Griffin was the only one who knew much about that fuckin' wizard."

Sam opened his mouth to ask why that was worse, pulling them slowly up the shaft, then realized what Dean meant. If they didn't know much about the wizard, they couldn't find him. If they couldn't find _him_, they couldn't find _Brenna_.

"We'll find her, Dean," Sam assured him.

Dean closed his eyes, his trembling starting to increase once again. "We'd better."

Sam tugged the rope, moving them ever upward, feeling sweat bead on his upper lip and along his hairline. He watched his brother's face pulling tight with worry, somewhat relieved that though Dean lay in a heap of weakness, it wasn't pain that pulled his brows together.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"You love her?"

Dean's lips twitched. His forehead folded into a frown.

"It's okay if you do," Sam tried, finding it difficult to express his tangled emotions.

They weren't the type of brothers who offered solace and understanding through words. He fought for a way to say _I was afraid of her; I didn't want her to take you away from me when we have so little time left._ He search for words that expressed _I was jealous of you; I didn't want to watch you feel love when I am destined to be without it. When everyone I love dies._

He struggled with _I want to be the one to save you; I want you to know that __**I**__ saved you because you saved me, because you brought me back, because you have given up everything for me and I know I owe you so much and there's no way I can pay you back and I hate that. And she's powerful enough. She's just enough that she might do it. _

The jealousy he felt toward Brenna wasn't something he was used to, and he was ashamed. Watching Dean lay on the platform, fighting just to stay conscious, blood soaking his clothes, Sam realized he was a fool. His connection to Dean went beyond anything either of them would ever have with another.

It was a link that had been born in the fire that took their mother. It was a melding of souls. Beyond friendship. Beyond brotherhood. When Sam was cut, Dean bled. Literally and metaphorically. And the only thing that could break that was inside of them.

"I mean it," Sam continued when Dean didn't speak. "I loved Jess. I looked at her, and, man, I wanted to wrap up the moon and give it to her. She made me… she made me _feel_, y'know? Like I was good. Like I mattered. Like without me, she didn't really exist."

Sam continued to haul them upwards, his weary, wounded body sweating with effort and from the oppressive heat they were emerging into as they ascended the shaft. Thinking of Jessica, he forgot about everything for a moment. He could still recall the spread of her smile. The snap in her eyes when she teased him. The way her skin smelled. The feel of her neck at the bend of her shoulder. The sound of her breath in his ear as they made love.

He never wanted to forget that. He never wanted to forget her.

Sam looked down at his brother, pale, trembling, laying on the elevator platform as if dropped from the sky. He opened his mouth to prompt an answer when Dean spoke, his voice slurred and rough, as if pulled from the recesses of awareness. As if spoken in reluctant confession.

"Yeah," rasped Dean, "I love her."

Unsure if he were relieved by the honesty, or more worried for his brother now than ever before, Sam called out to him.

"Dean?"

When he didn't answer, Sam stretched out a foot, toeing Dean's hand with his boot. Dean didn't flinch.

"Shit," Sam muttered, pulling faster. "We're almost there, Dean. We're almost out."

What Sam hadn't considered, he realized as they crested the opening, drawing level with the ground and the opened door of the elevator, was that _out_ didn't exactly mean _free_. He tied the rope, stepped off the platform and into the almost-tropical heat of the Pennsylvania morning. Looking around at the barren landscape, devoid of any form of transportation, he felt his heart sink.

"Son of a bitch."

www

Some time ago, Brenna had reached a level of control with her druid sight that allowed her to adjust it like a dimmer switch, seeing just enough into a person that she could take what she needed, and not be burdened with the rest. She accepted the power as part of her. Like the freckles across her nose, or her unruly hair. She hadn't considered it to be anything of notable significance.

"Perhaps it is you I should have cut." The whisper was heated, the lips wet pressed closed to her ear, not quite touching.

"It wouldn't have mattered," she muttered, pulling her legs as close to her chest as possible, gripping them tightly with her arms.

The cloistered air of the empty rail car was black as the inside of her captor's heart, the rhythmic rocking of the train a nauseating reminder of how far she was traveling from help, from safety. Brenna was thankful only that the wizard wasn't currently touching her. The journey she'd taken inside of his insanity had set her on the edge of a very deep, dark hole and she was debating on the benefit of falling in.

"Now, that's no way to talk," Adoamros crooned.

She felt him moving around her in the dark; she could _smell_ him. The sour stench of his breath, the heat of his skin, the sulfurous waft of air that followed his motion. Brenna bit the inside of her cheek, keeping the traitorous whimper silent, keeping her eyes open in the dark because the images she'd inadvertently pulled from his brain played too easily across her closed lids.

"Get the hell away from me," she growled.

"I don't think so," the wizard chuckled. "We are going to get to know each other very well, you and I."

Seeing Dean bleed for his brother had broken a piece of her heart and sent it tumbling inside her, slicing and cutting a lonely, shattered swath in its wake. His touch had once left her defenseless against emotions that ricocheted on each other, fighting to be heard and to hide simultaneously. But he didn't belong to her. She'd always known that on some level. And now, as much as she wanted to deny it, she had proof.

"Where are we going?"

"Don't worry about it," Adoamros retorted. "All that should matter to you is how you are going to give me your power in order to spare you life."

"Who says I care about sparing my life?"

"Everyone cares about sparing their life. It is the salvation of the human condition."

Brenna brought her head up, still unable to see much, but fully aware of where he was. "Not true."

"You delight in contradicting me," the wizard observed. "You won't when you're begging for your life."

"Oh, for the love… do you have _any_ original material?"

She heard his pacing steps halt. For several moments there was no sound but the clacking of the train as it raced over tracks taking them to God knows where. A bead of sweat traced a familiar path down the side of her face and she shrugged up a shoulder to wipe it away.

Her joints ached from having been bound for so long; the scrapes on her wrists stung as the oppressive heat of the early morning drew moisture from her skin. She scratched at the drying blood and her heart hitched as she remembered Dean, broken, bleeding, his eyes pinning hers with a promise only he could make.

_I'm gonna find you_.

She knew it was hopeless. Deep inside, in that place she fought to ignore, where truth festered and grew, infecting her with knowledge that she didn't want to recognize, she heard a small voice telling her that this was it. This encounter, this insane man who thought himself to be a wizard, would decide her fate.

"Dean," she whispered, closing her eyes and picturing him, hale and whole, standing before her. She traced a mental glance along jeans worn from life on the road, bowed legs relaxed and ready, gray T-shirt pressed against the contours of his body, short hair catching the morning light, green eyes shielded by lashes so long they would keep a secret safe.

Holding that image in her mind, Brenna opened her eyes, pressed her hands flat on the floor of the rail car and pushed herself to her feet. The glow from the rising sun filtered in through random cracks in the car, offering just enough light that she could see the silhouette of the wizard standing across the car from her, looking as though he were speaking with someone.

Brenna took a breath and slowly rolled her fingers tight against her fists. She had lost the discipline to focus her power long ago—now she knew she could be its victim along with the wizard. It no longer mattered. For several months, she'd held on to the illusion of the possibility of love, though outwardly she denied it. Inside, she always hoped. The wizard's spell had erased that hope.

So she would erase him.

"What are you doing?" Adoamros turned to face her.

She couldn't see his expression, but she could make out his form. Pulling everything, every hideous image of blood and death, every scream of pain, every plea for mercy, every year upon year of unnatural life, every moment of imagined physical connection with the brother he'd lost so long ago, every dark shadow and glimmer of light she had seen inside his mind to the surface of her own, Brenna cried out.

Her body bucked and she felt something inside of her give way as a force filled the empty rail car, shaking the sliding doors and flinging them from their clasps, propelling them outward into the scorching countryside.

"What. Are. You. _Doing_!?"

Brenna screamed, falling to her knees, but unwilling to give in, wanting to overwhelm the wizard with the same force as she'd obliterated the doors. Wanting to _kill_.

The echoing blast of power from the wizard sent her tumbling to the ground, slamming her against the back of the rail car and driving the air from her lungs. Dimly through ringing ears, she heard the raspy, reptilian sound of the wizard muttering. It sounded like a spell, but she didn't know enough of such things to identify it.

She coughed helplessly, unable to defend herself when he crossed the car and grabbed the front of her torn shirt, ripping it further and exposing her bra and bruised ribs. She weakly beat away his hands, but the blast of energy that had driven the doors from the car had sapped her strength completely.

Adoamros closed his fingers around her neck, causing her to instinctively clasp his wrist in defense. As he pulled her up from the ground, she fell into him, unable to shield herself, unable to save herself. As if slipping through a tunnel, Brenna jerked and flinched as the truth of the wizard's life played out for her through his eyes in a kaleidoscope of colors.

A young man with blue eyes wearing an olive green Army uniform stepped in close, his lips soft, his skin cool. The image shifted and the eyes she was looking through saw the same young man bruised and pale—death haunting the edges of his expression. She traveled with Adam Carter through the tunnels of the abandoned mine, she felt his sorrow, his utter loneliness, his complete despair. She saw the dagger, she watched him learn, she felt the strange mixture of disgust, horror, and pleasure as he killed his first victim.

She felt his heat, the heat of his need, the heat of his anger. The heat permeated his being, drifted into the world, oppressed the town until his anger was satiated, until his need was satisfied. She felt him lose his humanity as easily as if he shrugged free of a cloak. She watched the diamond blade separate skin, break apart connections, shatter life, and she felt him delight in it.

When Adoamros released her, Brenna fell to the ground gasping, choking, weakly pressing a shaking hand to her throat.

"You think you can kill me? _Me?_ I am forever!"

Brenna lifted her eyes, knowing they were wide, predatory, unnatural. "You are _nothing_," she rasped. She pushed herself slowly to her knees, never taking her eyes from him. "You get off on a borrowed power."

"That's not true," Adoamros stated flatly, leaning close. "The power is mine. Mine! Lane showed me, he gave it to me, so that I can return him—"

"Lane is dead, you freak."

"He speaks to me." Adoamros straightened, stepping back from Brenna. "He is my soul mate."

"He doesn't speak to you. He probably pities you."

The crack of his fist across her cheekbone wasn't a surprise, but it hurt like hell. Brenna's vision swam and her eyes watered as she slowly brought her head back up to look at the wizard with contempt.

"Feel like a big man now?"

"You live for one purpose: to replace the two I lost."

"Bite me," she spat. "All I wanted to do is get you away from them."

"They are still dead," Adoamros smiled wickedly. "You efforts didn't save them."

Brenna swallowed the sudden rush of bile and clenched her teeth as she said, "If they died, then they did so with their souls intact. You didn't win."

Adoamros looked out through the open rail car, the hot wind buffeting his hair and mustache, pressing his clothes tight against his skin. Brenna looked away, not wanting the image of the mousey wizard to replace her memory of Dean.

"If you don't release your power, the town will burn."

"Oh, please," Brenna used the wall of the rail car to pull herself to her feet. "We've gone from killing soul mates to burning down a town? A little big for your britches, aren't you?"

"You feel that heat? You feel it out there?"

Brenna swallowed, keeping her face carefully blank.

"It will only increase until a sacrifice is made."

"Or you die."

Adoamros stepped up to her, his fisted fingers exposing how badly he wanted to touch her, the fear at the back of his eyes exposing his respect for her power. Brenna stared back at him, feeling her strength start to return. She didn't even see him pull the knife.

The sudden, unexpected slice on her shoulder caused her to cry out, then grip the wound, warm blood spilling over her fingers and dripping to the floor. Her surprise and pain shifted quickly to triumph and satisfaction as she watched the wizard's face crumple with disbelief.

"Looks like Lane isn't such a great divining rod these days," she gasped.

"You were there; you absorbed the spell."

"So?"

"Why do you bleed?!"

She watched as the wizard's sanity slipped off the precipice she herself had been perching on moments ago.

"Because," she stepped forward, "not everyone has a soul mate."

"No… no it's not possible."

"Maybe…" she swallowed, hating herself for even thinking these words, "maybe you killed mine… too quickly."

"I will fix this… I will fix this…"

The wild look in the wizard's eyes sent a shiver of worried apprehension down Brenna's spine. She darted a look out of the train car as she felt the motion below her feet begin to slow. Taking a breath, she tried to calculate how quickly she would have to move to get past the wizard and out through the door without breaking her neck.

"I _will_ fix this," Adoamros continued to repeat, then to her surprise reached out, grabbed her wrist, spun her around and pressed her forcefully against the wall.

"No," she whispered, closing her eyes tight, working to block the images that swamped her brain from his touch. "No no no no no…"

She pictured Declan, she pictured their home, the bar and the garage. She thought of the cars Declan had stored there so long ago. She pictured Dean rebuilding the Grand National for her as he healed from the banshee's attack. She felt Adoamros tying her wrists together, tightly. She felt a gag pressed into her mouth and tied behind her head. She felt his hand on her arm, pulling her from the wall, thrusting her to the open door of the rail car.

Mentally tracing the line of the Grand National, picturing dirty, jean-clad legs sticking out from under the belly of the beast, she was able to keep the horror of his touch at bay.

When he pushed her from the moving train, her mind was reaching down to pull Dean out from beneath the car. When her body crashed with bone-snapping impact against the unforgiving ground, she was grinning back into Dean's grease-smeared face, pulling a socket wrench from his hand in exchange for a shop towel.

When darkness took her mercifully into its embrace, she was falling gratefully into Dean's waiting arms.

www

Pain.

It was the only word that floated clearly to the surface, shining in large black letters on the white movie screen in his mind. He wondered how he could be so cold and so hot at the same time. His body shivered mercilessly, giving his tired, aching muscles little relief; the air around him, however, felt as if the universe had opened Hell, baking his overtaxed lungs and searing his dry throat.

Hands.

He felt hands on him, tugging him, lifting him. He knew that he should climb out of the hollow he hid inside, step away from the comfort of the gray, offer help to whoever was trying so hard to relocate him, but he could do no more than breathe. And even that was becoming a chore.

"…have to walk…get some help…"

Sam.

He heard his brother's voice coming from very far away, drifting and rolling as if they bobbed together on water, cast away by fate, left alone together to survive the sacrifice of another life. He wanted to reach out, to grab hold of Sam. But he could only breathe.

"-ean?"

Sam was calling him.

The voice was young, fearful, needy. He should reassure him that it would be okay, that everything was going to be fine, that he wasn't going anywhere, that they would find a way out of this. But he couldn't stop shaking, he couldn't turn away from the gray, and the black was whispering to him with seductive promises of peace, safety, solace.

"…right back…be long…"

Hands.

Once more he felt himself shifted, moved, his head falling back and being caught in the grip of his brother's large hands, the coarse material of a blanket wrapped tightly around him, helping to soothe the shaking despite the intense heat. He felt fingers flit across his forehead, pressure on his shoulder as words were whispered from familiar lips, but then lost in a miasma of nausea, pain, and weakness.

Silence.

He was aware of the stirring of air, the feel of it slipping over his exposed skin and dry lips. He was aware of the rattle of metal on metal. He was aware of the absence of all other sound. He was aware that he was alone.

He wanted to wake up, to open his eyes, to look around and to head down the same road as Sam, fighting the good fight, staying the course. He pushed through the cloudy thickness of the gray that boxed him in, pressing around him with such weight that it was nearly impossible to pull in air. He was breathing in the gray.

His thoughts started to snap, spark, jumping from the logical need to climb back to awareness then slipping back to memory and making recollection tangible and real. He was sitting on the floor of the hidden room in the storage unit, his mother's tiny ring on his finger, his hands full of a lost childhood. He was confessing his fear of Hell to the one person who should never see him afraid.

He was yelling at a mirrored image of himself, spitting venom and pain in his own face. He was losing himself in the tender flesh of a stranger while Sam waited for him. He was standing on a gravel road, tasting the cold lips of a demon. He was yelling at Bobby, wanting him _gone_. He was kneeling in the mud, the weight of his dead brother in his arms. He was gripping his head with pain from a vision. He was catching Sam as he was overwhelmed by a vision.

He was sitting on the hood of his car, baring his soul to satiate the demands of his brother. He was hitting Sam. He was hitting the Impala. He was watching his father burn. He was listening to the tone of a still heart monitor. He was lying shocked and shaken in a hospital bed, looking into the liquid eyes of the one person he needed most in the world, listening to a vow of sacrifice, and feeling his world shatter.

"No," Dean gasped, jerking harshly, his eyes snapping open.

His lungs searched vainly for breath and he looked around, panicked to realize that he was lying outside of the elevator shaft of the abandoned mine. Alone.

"Sam?" he called, his voice so ravaged by the night that it came out as a breathy gasp. "Sammy?"

His vision doubled, then swam and he dropped his head back fighting back the nausea that threatened to rid him of any liquid left in his body.

_He didn't leave you, Dean. He'll be back. He didn't leave._ His inner voice reprimanded the fear his weakened system taunted him with.

_You took care of me, you took care of Sammy…_

Dean brought his head up, looking around once more, his father's voice so clear his addled brain expected him to be standing in front of him, glowing with tears of relief and sorrow tracking his rugged cheeks.

"Get a grip, Dean." He coughed, rolling with effort to his knees, reaching up with a staggered grip to the side of the elevator shaft and using it to pull himself to his feet.

The blanket slipped, and he almost let it fall, until another shudder coursed through him and he instead drew it tighter around his sweaty body. Swallowing, he looked around again, the morning sun already giving the air a shimmering, metallic quality. He saw a dusty, gravel-strewn road stretching out before him, and clear indentations of Sam's footprints.

"On my way, Sammy."

As he staggered forward, resolutely planting one foot before the other, he thought of his father's sacrifice. He thought of his own. How there had never been a choice in his mind once the idea occurred to him. Then he thought of Sam, and he stumbled.

Sam shouldn't have to sacrifice anything and yet… yet he might be the one to sacrifice the most. If they couldn't find a way out of this deal—a way that didn't result in Sam's demise—Dean was suddenly afraid he'd be damning his brother to a fate worse than death. A fate he, himself hadn't been able to handle. Life without his brother.

Dean's stomach rolled sickeningly in his stomach as he thought about the _what if._ What if they failed, if they didn't keep him from the pit? He was going to have to convince Sam that he could stand on his own.

Because the sacrifice was only as noble as the person saved.

"Sorry, Dad," he whispered dryly, his thoughts bowing his shoulders.

Another trip and he went to his knees. Pushing himself awkwardly upward, he took two more steps and staggered once more, this time unable to catch himself. He was barely able to thrust out his hands to halt his falling body when he met the ground with the side of his face.

Coughing weakly, he blinked through dust covered lashes, seeing his father, crouched in the dust, as real as the heat around him, fingers laced and hanging loose between bent knees. Dean squinted, bringing his head up, the light of the dangerous sun shimmering the image of John before him.

_I am so proud of you_…

"Dad?"

The roar of the truck erased the image of John and Dean blinked as Sam barreled from the still-moving vehicle to hit the ground in a sprint, closing the distance between them.

"Dean!"

Dean rolled limply with the force of Sam's hands. "Hey, Sammy."

"What the hell were you… I left you back at the… I was only going for… I found Virgil and he—"

"Good to see you, man," Dean interrupted, choking on the dust coating his face.

Sam sniffed and wiped some of the grime away. "Good to see you, too."

"Jesus H. Christ," Virgil whispered as he joined them. "What the hell happened to you, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. He could only watch his brother. He could only breathe.

"He needs blood, Virge," Sam answered, staring down at Dean.

"This is all his?" Virgil squeaked.

"Help me get him up," Sam commanded.

Hands.

Dean felt more hands on him, cradling him, lifting him, bearing him across the dirt road and into the back of Virgil's pick-up.

"Took Griffin to the hospital," Virgil was saying as he and Sam lay Dean down on a pallet that had obviously been used not too long before. "It's small, but they have an ER and some blood."

"We can't—" Sam started.

"Go to a hospital, yeah, I was afraid you were going to say that," Virgil grabbed Dean's wrist and Dean slid his eyes sluggishly to the medic's face.

"Hey, Sinatra."

"Hey, yourself, you crazy bastard," Virgil grumbled, laying Dean's arm across his bare belly and lifting his eye lid. "Your pulse is racing, you're dehydrated, you've got more blood outside than in… this is what you get for being a hero?"

"Pretty much."

"Can you help us?" Sam asked slumping down beside Dean, his knee at Dean's shoulder, his back against the truck bed.

"Dean? You know your blood type?"

"A positive," the brothers answered together.

"I can give him my blood," Sam offered.

"You are out on your feet, Sam," Virgil shook his head. "No. I think I can get some. Griffin has the same blood type."

Dean frowned. "No… way you're… gonna—"

"Don't worry," Virgil held up a hand. "It's not Griffin's blood. And quit trying to be a smart ass. You need to save your strength."

Dean blinked his eyes, heavy with exhaustion, and pulled the corner of his mouth up in a weak smile of thanks.

"Where's Brenna?" Virgil asked.

When neither brother responded, Dean heard the horror in Virgil's voice as he said, "He didn't…"

"She's alive," Sam said. "Or was the last time we saw her."

"She's… 'live," Dean slurred, unable to keep his eyes open. "Gonna… find 'er."

"Where?" Virgil asked, desperate.

"Virge, please, just… help us," Sam replied, his voice losing strength almost as rapidly as Dean's. "We'll find Brenna. Dean promised. And he never goes back on his word."

"Damn… straight," Dean whispered. He worked to keep close, to stay aware, but the voices were tunneling into echoes, only those of his own memories staying audible.

_I know how dead you are inside. How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror and hate what you see…_

_You took care of Sammy, you took care of me, you did that…_

_My father was an obsessed bastard! All that crap he dumped on me about protecting Sam, that was _his_ crap!_

_You have to save him, Dean. If you don't save him, you'll have to kill him._

_You can't escape me Dean. You're gonna die. And this is what you're gonna become._

_I am so proud of you._

"Sam…"

He felt his brother's hand in his, gripping tightly, holding on.

www

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Look a little better."

"Feel a little better."

"Well, you got about four bags of blood in you now."

"Wow. I have no idea what that means."

"According to Sinatra, the fact that you were breathing at all was nothing short of a miracle."

"Told you I was Batman."

Sam shook his head at his brother's tired grin, pulling the needle from Dean's arm and pressing a cotton ball and band-aide over the puncture hole.

"You're a mess, man," he commented, looking at Dean's blood-covered body. "You have like one tiny square of clean skin."

"How long?"

Sam heard the worry and awareness filter through Dean's voice.

"And where the hell are we?"

"It's been almost twelve hours—"

"What?!"

"And we're at Virgil and Brenna's hotel."

"Twelve hours!" Dean tried to sit up, collapsing back onto his elbow and closing his eyes. "Whoa…"

"Take it easy, man," Sam admonished. "You may have blood in you now, but you need to—"

"What about you?" Dean suddenly looked over, reaching with a still-trembling hand to press his fingertips on Sam's borrowed white T-shirt.

"Virge stitched me up," Sam informed him. "Seem to be doing okay. Still hurts, but… not bleeding."

"Infection?"

"He took care of me, Dean."

Dean fell back onto his pillow. "Twelve hours, Sam."

"It's still hot as hell out there."

Dean frowned at him. "So?"

"So," Sam stood up from his perch at the edge of the bed, wrapped the tubing from the blood bag and throwing it into the plastic biohazard container that Virgil had provided. "He still has her, and she's still alive. Otherwise… it would be cooling down by now."

"Oh," Dean nodded.

"Hey there," Virgil said from the doorway to the adjoining room. "You look better."

Dean tried to roll to his side, and Sam reached out gripping his shoulder and helping him swing his legs over the side of the bed to sit in a semi-slumped position.

"Thanks to you," Dean finally replied.

His color had drained with the change in position and his breathing was shallow. Sam watched him closely, not wanting a repeat of the limp, almost lifeless form he and Virgil had carried into the room this morning.

"Gotta tell you," Virgil said, clearing his throat nervously, "I wasn't sure if fluid and blood would do the trick. Blood loss can mess you up in ways… well, we have no idea what else is going wrong inside of you."

Sam frowned as Dean dropped his head, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the bed.

"Organ failure, heart damage," Virgil continued. "I mean, we basically put a piece of gum in the hole on a dam, here, buddy."

"I'm okay," Dean said, his voice low, thready.

"Dean," Sam hedged, knowing his brother's resistance to even the insinuation of weakness.

"Sam, I said I'm okay," Dean brought his head up, his eyes hot and aware.

Sam swallowed, looking away, frustration building low in his gut.

"So," Dean said, looking over at Virgil. "Do I want to know how you got all this?"

Virgil looked down, pulling his red baseball hat from his head and scratching his forehead. He shoved the hat back on and looked up. "Your friend in the sheriff's department had something to do with it."

"My friend in the—"

"Calhoun," Sam supplied. "When we told him that it was Carter, the M.E., that was killing everyone and that you were hurt, he said you were the coolest FBI Agent he'd ever met and he practically fell all over himself helping Virge get what he needed."

"Coolest Agent, huh?" Dean grinned.

"Don't let it go to your head, brother," Sam stood.

"Well, he got you the blood and the fluid and the antibiotics and stuff for Sam…" Virgil said. "He wasn't really hip to the idea that Carter was immortal, though."

"Thanks, man," Dean said softly. "This is the second time we'd have been dead without you."

"Don't think I'm forgetting that, either," Virgil said.

"How's Griffin?" Dean asked.

"A stubborn ass," Virgil replied grimly. "Bled nearly dry, but it's going to take some kind of supernatural force of nature to take that guy out."

Sam exchanged a look with his brother. In their lives, such a statement wasn't taken lightly.

"We need to get you cleaned up," Sam said.

"Hate to say it, but," Dean ran his hand across his bare belly. "I'm kinda outta clothes."

"I got some you can borrow," Virgil offered. "Got some food, too." He turned and headed back into the other hotel room.

Sam stepped over to Dean, holding out a hand. "C'mon, Batman."

"I can shower by myself, man."

"Yeah?"

Dean frowned. "Hell, yeah."

"Okay then." Sam stepped back, watching as Dean pushed himself to a trembling stance, carefully straightening his shoulders, then offering his brother a sunny grin.

Two steps from the bed, Dean's knees buckled.

Sam caught him, one hand on Dean's bent elbow, the other around his brother's waist.

"Okay, the room tilted," Dean said quietly. "That was not my fault."

"Uh-huh."

Getting Dean into the bathroom, Sam helped him rest on the closed toilet lid and turned on the hot water. Dean stripped out of his bloody jeans, setting the contents of his pockets on the counter, including, Sam saw, a small silver necklace. Dean threw the ruined clothes into a pile in the corner. Sam grabbed a trash can from the bedroom and flipped it upside down on the shower floor, laying a thick towel across it to make a bench for Dean.

"Where's my gun?"

"Did you know it was empty?"

"Yes. Where is it?"

"Under your pillow."

Dean tossed a grateful look at Sam, then reached out to grab his brother's arm, needing the balance. "This sucks—"

"—out loud, yeah, believe me. No picnic here."

Dean stepped into the shower and Sam helped him sit. The water beat down on the crown of Dean's head, sluicing his beard-stubbled cheeks and slipping the dried, crusted blood from his skin, turning the shower floor pink.

"Your back hurt?"

"Not so much."

"These sores are healing up."

"Brenna, she…"

Dean's voice faded and Sam scrambled to find something safe to stand on with his next topic.

"So where are the bullets?" Sam asked, turning to rest his back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, staring straight ahead to offer Dean some privacy, while staying close.

"Virge has them—no wait, Griffin has them."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Hey, he started it," Dean said squirting shampoo on his head and slowly rubbing away the sweat, dirt, and blood. "I was just looking for information."

"Yeah, I can guess how you asked questions," Sam shook his head. "Who broke it up?"

Sam stared at his own reflection in the mirror across from him, seeing angles and shadows that hadn't been there two days ago, seeing knowledge and regret in eyes too old for his face.

"Virge," Dean said, lifting his face to the stream of water and letting it beat on his closed eyes. "Y'know, I'm starting to really like that guy."

"You do know when this is over… someone's gonna have to walk away."

"Yeah, I know," Dean said, softly rubbing the soap on his belly and legs, trying to free himself of the remnants of blood. "Sam, those cuts… they left scars."

"I know," Sam said, dropping his eyes.

"Scars from a knife that never even touched me… We have weird lives, man."

"I know."

"You remember what happened to cause all your scars?" Dean asked, the childlike curiosity in his voice giving it back some of the strength the wounds had sapped.

"Yeah, you?" Sam handed Dean a towel when he heard the water shut off.

"No."

Sam shook his head as Dean wrapped the towel around his waist. "Think all those scars count for something?"

"Hell, yeah, they do." Dean shot him an unreadable look.

Sam nodded as Dean moved slowly past him, catching his brother's mumbled, "They'd better…"

They headed out to the outer room and Dean started to change into the clothes Virgil left on the foot of the bed. They were about one size too large, but with some creative rolling he was able to make them fit. He sat heavily on the bed and Sam handed him his empty 1911, then a sandwich.

"God, I'm starving," Dean said around a mouthful of food.

"Dean, I've been thinking," Sam started, handing Dean another sandwich as Virgil entered the room, leaning against the opened doorway that separated the spaces.

"Well, that's never a good thing," Dean commented, the food and shower having aided what the blood and fluids started. Sam saw color returning to his brother's pale face, the tremble of his hands beginning to steady.

"I think Virge and I should go after Brenna."

Dean stopped chewing, looked at Virgil, who looked back. When he slid his gaze back to Sam, he'd started chewing again, and his eyes had gone dead, empty of anything save purpose.

"_With_ me, you mean."

"Instead of you."

"No fuckin' way, Sam." Dean's voice was flat, allowing no room for argument.

"Dean, c'mon, man, you can barely walk, and—"

"I _promised_ her." Dean set the end of the sandwich down, then stood.

Sam saw that he looked solid, steady; part of him hoped for the best, but logic told him that it was just for show. The Dean Winchester Superhero show. _Epic hero overcomes odds to save girl…_ "I know, Dean. I know you did, but maybe this is one promise you don't keep."

Dean shook his head, picking up his gun as if he needed to have it for balance. "You're unbelievable."

"What?" Sam frowned, not liking the closed look on his brother's drawn face.

"I heard you, Sam. In that truck. I heard you say that I never go back on my word, and now you're saying I do just that."

"Gimme a break, man," Sam stepped forward. "We're not talking about honor or duty here. We're talking about you not being able to deal with losing someone you love."

Dean frowned, squaring off with his brother, all semblance of weakness gone as he pointed the empty gun at the floor. "And your point is what? I need to just… let it go?"

"Yes!" Sam bellowed. "Yes, Goddammit! You let it go! You don't give everything and get nothing back!"

"What the hell are you talking about, Sam?"

"I'm talking about this fuckin' family's need to sacrifice themselves!" Sam bellowed, feeling his control slip, his eyes hot and his fists coiled. His pulse, so sluggish hours ago, pounded in his temple as he stared at his brother, barely aware of Virgil's presence in the room with them. "Mom, Dad, you… it's _enough_, man!"

"He's gonna kill her, Sam."

"She made that choice, Dean."

Dean's chin shook, his eyes leaden with helpless rage. "I'm not letting her pay for it."

"Just like you didn't let me, that it?"

"This has nothing to do with you!" Dean took a step forward, throwing his empty gun on the bed.

Sam saw Virgil flinch, but ignored him. "It has _everything_ to do with me. I'm the reason we're here, remember? I'm the reason we even _needed_ to be here!"

"Sam, I told you—"

Sam pushed Dean's shoulder, testing him, wanting to see him fall, wanting to be able to say _See? You _can't_ do it all_. Dean took a step back, but stayed firm.

"I don't give a damn what you told me, Dean. You never gave me a choice. You never let me sacrifice for you. You take it all, you take it in, and you're going to go to Hell protecting me." Sam blinked, his jaw flexing, his eyes filling as his voice rasped, "And I hate you for that."

Dean swallowed, pulling in a breath. Sam worked to still his angry tears, unable to take his eyes from his brother's face as Dean looked down, then wiped a trembling hand across his mouth.

"How did we get here?" Dean asked softly. His eyes bore in to the floor, his body looking spare, yet powerful, in the borrowed clothes. "Why is it that everything comes back to this?"

"Because you didn't walk away, Dean," Sam replied in a choked voice. "Because you couldn't let me die."

Dean looked up. "No." He shook his head and the tears in his eyes clawed at Sam's heart. "No, I couldn't, Sammy. Y'know, it didn't even matter why… some demon's plan, some dude you couldn't kill. We all made our choices," Dean looked at Virgil, then back at Sam, "but it doesn't mean we have to die because of them."

Sam sniffed, looking down. He didn't want Brenna to die. But he didn't want to lose Dean, either.

"Promise me something," Sam said softly. When Dean didn't answer, he looked up. Dean watched him, his eyes liquid. "Promise me that you won't save her at the cost of your own life."

Dean blinked. "I'm not going to let her die, Sam."

"Promise me, Dean."

They stood, quietly regarding each other, accusations and requests hanging between them like cobwebs. When the sound of heartbeats became the only thing filling the silence of the room, Virgil cleared his throat.

"Turns out, I'm pretty good in a fight," he said, drawing the brother's eyes. "And if it helps, I been watching out for Brenna awhile now. I don't intend on letting that wizard cut her up like he done you two."

Sam looked down, taking a steadying breath. "So, we're all going?"

"We're all going," Dean replied, sitting down to tug on his dirty, blood-splattered boots.

Sam nodded, feeling the unresolved issues settle in between them. He ran a hand through his hair and picked up Dean's gun. "We don't know where to go."

"I know someone who does," Dean replied, holding out his hand for his gun. "And he's got something of mine."

It was a ten minute ride in Virgil's truck to pick up the Impala. Sam thought his brother actually looked relaxed as he slid behind the wheel, the leather of the seats and the steering wheel too hot for comfort, even at night. They followed Virgil to the hospital and waited in the shadows as the former paramedic slipped in to check on Griffin.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch." Dean bit the words off at the edges when Virgil returned, reporting what Sam had feared. Griffin was gone. "They say where he went?"

"They didn't even know he'd left."

"He was okay to walk?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Told you he was a stubborn bastard," Virgil shrugged.

"We got a few of those around here," Sam muttered.

Dean shot him a look. "Don't need any comments from the peanut gallery."

"Now what?" Virgil grumbled, pulling off his hat in the familiar nervous gesture Sam had grown accustomed to.

"I got an idea," Sam revealed.

www

It wasn't so much the pain as it was the disorienting darkness, the smell of decay, the shifting colors as what looked like stained glass reflected candlelight. Brenna rolled to her side, unable to stifle the whimper of pain as her bruised body protested. She couldn't tell if anything was broken; she just knew she hurt from the inside out, and that her mind was crumpling inward like the edges of waxed paper in an oven.

Hands stroked her cheek, running down the length of her throat, over her breast and flattened on her bare belly. She tried to pull away, but she was blocked by something hard and cold. She wanted to look around, to discern where Adoamros had taken her, but his touch sent her reeling into darkness and she lost control.

"Here I am," he whispered, "the mate for your wayward soul."

"No," Brenna whimpered. She wanted light. She wanted air. She wanted to feel Dean's strong arms. She wanted to hear Virgil's smoky voice.

"Oh, yes," the wizard crooned. "I see it clearly now. All the souls before, all the years of searching, have led me to you, the soul with no match, the one with power to complete my journey."

Brenna pulled as far away from his hand as she could, shuddering with revulsion as she felt him stroke the inside of her thigh, tug on the button of her jeans. Her eyes were so wide they ached, the visions his touch assaulted her with left her shaking, but it was all a repeat of the same story of incest, blood, death.

"When they find me, you're gonna wish you died with your brother, you freak."

"No one is going to find you," the wizard murmured, changing his mind and stroking the skin along her ribs. "You have no match; no one is going to care."

Brenna felt the sob at the back of her throat, choking on it as she swallowed. "That's… not true."

The wizard ran his index finger across her jaw line. "Isn't it?"

She felt his fingers in her hair, roughly pulling her head up. His lips pressed close to her ear. "Mother, father, dead. Poor little girl had to see, had to watch."

Brenna gritted her teeth, sickened that he had seen into her as she had seen into him. She closed her eyes as his thumb traced her full lips, trying to keep safe the most precious of her memories.

"Grandad slain by a wraith, tsk tsk," Adoamros flattened his hand on her throat and Brenna turned her head away, rolling her skull against the hard surface she'd pressed herself back against. "And now, you have a love that you deny, and a love that you are kept from."

Brenna groaned as his fingers dug into the flesh of her shoulder. Without warning, the stroking ended and he jerked her forward, face to face, eye to eye. The candles around them shot flames higher as her panic soared and she saw that she was in what looked like a crypt, stained glass windows flanking a small metal door, cobwebs and vines filling the corners of the room. The darkness beyond the windows revealed only the dead of night.

"Where are we?"

"We are with him. With Lane."

"Oh, God," Brenna groaned. "You really are a sick bastard."

"He's shown me what you need to see," Adoamros whispered, his stale breath ghosting her face and causing her to gag, "and how to show it to you."

"What—" Brenna said, but wasn't able to finish her question as reality caved in and was replaced by images from her dreams.

People tied to posts, cut, bleeding, crying out for each other. She gasped as the images slid and shifted and she was seeing Sam stagger forward, falling to his knees as a knife was plunged into his back. Trying to recoil, she saw Dean sprawled on the floor, chest ripped and bloody, eyes destroyed. Crying out she saw Virgil fall to a crumpled heap, a slashed, bloody wound across his belly.

"NO!" Brenna screamed, the denial curling up from her gut, offering her strength from a source she had yet to tap.

She pushed violently away from Adoamros, kicking out viciously when he reached for her again. She saw the flash of the diamond-bladed knife and rolled away, coming face to face with the opened coffin and drawn, rotted skin framing the graying bones of what could only be Lane Carter. She screeched, pushing back, then turned around quickly, circling opposite Adoamros as he held the knife at the ready.

"All you have to do is release it, offer it up, and you will be spared the pain of the blade."

"Go to Hell."

Adoamros straightened, tilting his head slightly, then shrugged in a completely incongruous motion of acceptance. "You first," he said, rushing Brenna.

She ducked her head, absorbing the impact, and rotated, barreling them both to the floor. The contact with the ground loosened the wizard's grip and the knife tumbled free. In that instant, Brenna's decision was made.

She scrambled forward, reaching for the knife.

www

"You guys sure like out-of-the-way places," Virgil commented from the back seat of the Impala as they turned down the rutted road toward the rail car.

"Yeah, well, you guys took the last of the hotel rooms," Sam said. "Didn't leave us much choice."

"Even if one of us is the coolest FBI Agent ever," Dean remarked.

Virgil chuckled and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You see what I see?"

Sam leaned forward, peering through the starlit, moonless night at the large, black truck parked just to the side of the rail car. "Isn't that—"

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled.

"Yeah, that's who I thought it was," Sam nodded, sitting back.

Dean stopped the Impala and got out, forced to grab the door for a moment to steady himself before moving forward. He caught Sam's worried eye and shook his head once. _Let it go_. They marched up to the door, Dean in the lead, and thrust open the cracked entrance.

"Well, hey, there!" Dean greeted loudly and way too cheerily.

Griffin turned, casually, having no doubt heard their approach, holding a knife in one hand, a stack of papers in the other. "Took you guys long enough."

"Oh, so sorry," Dean commented dryly, ignoring Griffin's weapon and reaching out to grab the papers from his hands. He shoved them in Sam's direction. "Would have been here sooner, but then I would have missed the Blood Loss and Freaky Wizard Show."

"Glad to see you made it out," Griffin said, spinning the knife and shoving it back into its sheath at his side. "Where's the chick?"

Dean thrust out a hand, anticipating Virgil's forward movement.

"He's got her, no thanks to you!" Virgil spat.

Griffin lifted his hands, a placid expression on his swarthy face. "Hey, man, I got nothing to do with it."

"Forget it," Dean waved a hand at him. "You still want your revenge? Help us figure out where he is."

"I know where he is," Griffin revealed.

"What!" Virgil exclaimed. "How the hell—"

"How isn't exactly important," Griffin crossed his hands over his chest.

Dean lifted a brow. "Really?"

Griffin nodded. "I'd say what's more important is that we talk about that knife."

"What knife?" Virgil asked.

"The Kestrel," Griffin pulled out his Silver Stag, turning in the weak lamplight of the room. "See, I had no idea what the knife was when I decided to go after this wizard. I just wanted him dead." Griffin looked at Dean, flipping the knife around and casually taunting Dean with the hilt. "But now, after listening to that red-head, and hanging out with you guys, I think I've changed my mind."

"You bastard," Virgil growled as Dean deftly took the Stag from Griffin, automatically hefting it and finding the balance. "You know that knife may be the only thing that can save him."

Dean spun the knife casually in his grip, eyes on Griffin. _I know your game, and I can play it better._

Griffin shrugged. "Always good to have an ace in the hole," he said. "You want to know where the wizard is… I want the knife."

"Uh, guys?" Sam spoke up from where he'd been bent over the box of papers from John's storage unit, the pages Dean had taken from Griffin spread out before him.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"Well, remember how I said that you had to _own_ the knife to harness its power?" Sam straightened, looking at his brother, papers clasped in both hands.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, encouraging Sam to continue.

"I missed something," Sam said, eyes darting between Dean, Virgil, and Griffin. "You, uh… you have to kill the previous owner. And if you try to use the knife without killing him… it'll, uh… turn on you. It'll kill you."

Griffin guffawed. "Oh, this just gets better and better."

"I'm not kidding, man," Sam said holding out the paper for Griffin to see. "Look."

"It's in Latin," Griffin pointed out.

"Seriously," Virgil shook his head. "You all should take a crash course in dead languages."

"It says _only through blood will ownership bequeath, the bloodless hand a soul demands, from this life—"_

"—to the next," Dean finished.

"Yeah," Sam looked at him. "How'd you know that?"

"It's on the blade of the knife, right?" Dean continued.

"Yeah."

"Saw it on the picture before," Dean said, lifting his brow. "Can't say I don't do my homework."

"So, wait, let me get this straight," Virgil spoke up. "You have to kill the owner of the knife, but… you can't use the knife to do that?"

Sam nodded. "Right. You use the knife at all while it belongs to someone else, it'll turn on you."

"Like… magically?" Virgil frowned. "Is that even possible?"

"You're kidding, right?" Griffin scoffed. "You're totally fine saving your girl from an immortal wizard, but the idea of a magical knife just doesn't jive with you."

"Ease up, Mr. Bad Ass." Dean shifted so that he was slightly in front of Virgil, then stabbed the Silver Stag into the countertop.

"Hey! Watchit!" Griffin said, reaching for his knife.

"Just remember who hauled your sorry ass out of that mine," Dean snapped, his eyes flinty. "You'd be dead if it weren't for this guy."

"Dean?"

Dean turned, moving toward Sam. "You find something else?"

"Kinda…"

"What is it, man?"

Sam chewed his bottom lip, holding up a picture of Dean at about fifteen, leg in a cast, sitting on the trunk of the Impala, showing off the carved end of a crutch he'd fashioned into a wooden knife. "Remember this?"

"Heh," Dean nodded. "Yeah. I fell down some stairs running out of a building. We went to Pastor Jim's. I couldn't watch you laid up, and Dad, well…"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "You remember what Dad went after?"

Dean frowned, searching his memory, feeling the same weight at the back of his head that had troubled him when he'd first seen the picture of the Kestrel Dagger. "No, but, y'know what I do remember is him coming back and he was talking to someone on the phone—another hunter—and he was trying to talk them out of looking for something. I remember he said something about killing a human."

Sam nodded. "I remember that too, 'cause we got a lecture from Pastor Jim."

Dean's smile caught on nostalgic, tipping into bitter. "Yeah. Jim and his lectures."

"You think Dad was talking about this knife?" Sam asked.

"I never really gave it much thought before," Dean looked back at the picture.

"You notice how there's not much in here after that time? All the pictures, the notes, the spells… they're all from when we were kids. His actual journal starts up in detail after this."

Dean nodded. "I did notice that, actually."

"So what are we saying here?" Griffin broke in, boredom clear in his voice. "Your daddy knew about the knife and didn't tell you so we have to have a moment of silence?"

Sam shot a look at Dean and Dean felt his jaw harden in response to the anger in his little brother's eyes.

"We're talking about killing a human," Dean said. "A batshit crazy human, but… a human. We could… bind his powers or--"

"A human who tried to kill you two and took your girl," Griffin interrupted. "A human who has used magic to live longer than he should… not to mention at least twelve other victims, if not more."

"Yeah, but," Virgil cleared his throat, "isn't that something we turn into the cops? I mean, is it really up to us to play God?"

Dean and Sam stared at each other, silent. Griffin turned on the former paramedic.

"Hell, _yes_ it's up to us!" His bellow shook the interior of the rail car. "When it comes to this shit, we're judge and Goddamn jury! We say what's right and wrong!"

"That so?" Virgil replied, refusing to give ground to Griffin's tirade. "Doesn't make you much different than him, then does it?"

"Sam…" Dean said in soft contrast to the argument behind them. "This knife… maybe it's not the way."

"Dean, no," Sam backed up, shaking his head. "No, you can't give up on me now."

"I'm _not_ giving up, man," Dean dropped the picture back into the box. "I'm just saying… maybe we look for some other way to break the deal. We have some time."

"What do you think I've been doing all this time, Dean?" Sam yelled, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. "I _have been_ looking for other ways. _Any_ other way!"

"So we keep looking!"

"Meanwhile," Griffin broke in, "clock's ticking."

"Shut up!" The brother's yelled at him in unison.

"I hate to, but," Virgil spoke up, "I gotta agree with Griffin."

Sam turned to Virgil. "You want Brenna back. I get that. But I'm not going to back away from killing some wizard who _used to be_ human **or** hand over the only lead I've found in _months_ that might save my brother to some… some two-bit whore of a hunter."

"Hey!" Griffin protested.

"Sam," Dean reached for Sam's arm, but Sam jerked it away from his grasp.

"No! No, Dean. It's not… it's not fair," he finished weakly. "It's just not fucking fair."

"You're right," Dean said softly. "And… I'm sorry, man, I am. But this time… we gotta do the right thing."

"How do you even know what that is anymore?" Sam asked.

The three men regarded him silently. Dean looked away, unable to find the words Sam needed. With a defeated sigh of resignation, Sam headed for the boxes, grabbing up several papers and stuffing them in his jeans pocket.

"Sam?"

"C'mon," Sam said quietly.

"We in agreement? No knife?" Dean asked, a gentle hand on Sam's arm. "Just get Brenna, bind the wizard's powers, and go?"

Sam simply looked at him, a struggle for acceptance clear in his hazel eyes. "Let's load this stuff into the car. We're not coming back here again."

Dean watched him carefully for a moment, then nodded, gathering up their clothes bag while Virgil took the weapons and Sam the grenade boxes. Griffin waggled his knife free, then headed out behind them.

"Hey, Winchester!" Griffin called.

Sam and Dean paused and turned in unison. Griffin held out the clip to Dean's .45.

"Here," he said, tossing it Dean's way. Dean caught it against his chest. "I suppose I owe you." He tapped his leg.

"Virgil's the one that saved you, man," Dean reminded him.

"Yeah, well," Griffin shrugged, heading to his truck.

"Unfreakinbelievable," Sam muttered. "You saved his life and he's still gonna go for the knife. He doesn't even want it for what it can do!"

"Let it go, Sam." Dean said tiredly. "There's no use throwing logic at a mercenary."

Virgil, Sam, and Dean piled into the Impala, following Griffin's black truck out of town and along a deserted highway illuminated only by starlight. Dean thought back to Sam's observance of the contents in the boxes from the storage unit. _Could Dad really have known about the Kestrel? He knew about Ruby's knife… why did he keep that stuff from us?_

A glance at his brother showed Dean that Sam was deep in troubled thoughts; his jaw was tight, the muscle working over time, and his hands were rubbing nervously along the seam of his jeans. Dean returned his attention to the taillights from Griffin's truck, following him through the dark to an unknown destination. As Griffin slowed, Dean realized where they'd arrived.

"You gotta be kidding me," he muttered.

"A cemetery?" Virgil wondered aloud. "Why would he—"

"His brother," Sam and Dean replied together.

"I should've figured that one out," Sam sighed.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Dean said, parking next to Griffin's truck, "but I'm kinda glad you couldn't anticipate the mind of a lunatic."

Sam grinned slightly as Virgil got out of the car. Dean opened his door, but paused when he felt Sam's hand on his arm. He looked down at the hand, then up at Sam, questions pulling his eyebrow up.

"You okay to do this, Dean? I mean really?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"You're really sure? I mean, Sinatra seemed pretty worried, and it's not like we're doctors or anything..."

"Dude, I'm not going to keel over."

"Okay." Sam's voice was hesitant and he didn't let go of Dean's arm.

"What is it?" Dean frowned.

Sam looked down, rubbing at the worn spot on the passenger door that he'd softened with years of worry. "I, uh…"

"Sam?"

Sam looked up, and Dean saw the same conviction and promise in his brother's eyes that had been shining there the night they opened—and closed—the Devil's Gate. The night Sam had declared _maybe it's time I save your ass for a change._

"I don't hate you, Dean."

Dean grinned, feeling it meet and soften his eyes. "I know. Bitch."

Sam grinned back. "Jerk."

"You ladies gonna join us or what?" Griffin called softly.

The brother's stepped out into the heat of the night, gathering salt, guns, lighter fluid, matches and Dean's knife from the trunk. Virgil watched, silent questions in his eyes. Griffin impatiently spun his Silver Stag in his hand.

"Lost my thrower in the cave," Dean confessed as they followed Griffin toward one of the two monolithic-looking crypts.

"Me too," Sam said.

"I really liked that thrower," Dean complained.

"Yeah," Sam swallowed, his shoulder next to Dean's as they watched Griffin ease the lock on the door under the large cement letters reading _Carter_. "Me too."

Griffin opened the door and the previously-muted sounds of a fight for life rolled over the foursome. The hunters and Virgil ran through the door and skidded to a halt as the unbelievable sight of a bruised, bloody Brenna, shirt torn open, hair tangled, eyes wild, fighting off the small but unnaturally powerful wizard.

Dean gaped for a moment as Brenna used her body as a weapon, slammed the wizard to the floor. The Kestrel Dagger slid free of his grip and Brenna dove, her hand inches from the grip.

"Brenna, no!" Dean cried, just as her fingers closed around the hilt of the knife.

* * *

a/n: No music in this chapter, but the situations didn't really call for it. There is more in the chapter to come and in the epilogue. I hope you're all enjoying and that you stay tuned for what's to come. As I told Sojourner, I got teary when I finished the outline for Chapter 6, so I hope it works for you.

Also, in the next few days, check out my LiveJournal page for updates on the upcoming KazCon '09, _To Hell And Back._ It will be held in Lawrence, KS, August 6th-9th, and more information can be found at http: // kazcon .us (remember to remove the extra spaces). Hope to see you there!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1. _**Note:**_** Violence, potentially disturbing images, a mature scene, and language in this chapter.**

**a/n**: You are all wonderful people. My thanks to you for reading and for commenting. My thanks to The Powers That Be for a fifth season. My thanks to Kelly for her shrewd eye. And to the hands at my back that alternately push me forward and keep me from the edge. You know who you are.

* * *

_Hold me now I need to feel relief  
Like I never wanted anything  
I suppose I'll let this go and find a reason I'll hold on to  
I'm so ashamed of defeat  
And I'm out of reasons to believe in me  
I'm out of trying to get by…_

_The Gift, by Seether_

www

He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

The strength that had carried him from waking in the hotel room to standing in the nightshade of the crypt seemed to flood out of his pores with sweat from the insane heat. Sam's words of warning back in the rail car echoed loudly in his ears as he watched Brenna's small hand close over the hilt of the dagger. He stepped forward, the can of salt slipping from his fingers, the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing as his skin tightened with the horror of the moment.

"Brenna, don't move," Dean said, his voice rough with honest fear.

The six people in the room seemed to collectively hold their breath as Brenna's wild eyes slid to meet Dean's and the wizard froze in his frantic effort to grab her waist.

"You need to let go. Now." Dean's order was soft, but his words strong and clear. He barely noticed the tremble of his limbs as he took another step forward.

As if compelled to obey despite the look of determination on her face, Brenna's fingers stiffly released the knife and she lifted a shaking hand away from the danger.

"No! No, you can't be here," Adoamros hissed. He lay stretched forward, a hand hovering over the small of Brenna's back, his eyes pinned to Dean as if seeing an apparition.

"Stow it, Gandalf," Dean snapped, his eyes on Brenna's cowering form. "Brenna, come here."

Brenna blinked, as if she, too, were working to believe Dean was truly standing in the crypt with her. She didn't move. Dean took another step toward her, aware of Griffin and Sam moving to either side of his periphery, aware of Virgil at his back, aware of the almost palpable tension in the room. The air was electric; it was the moment before a lightning strike.

"Bren—"

"STOP!" Adoamros roared, rolling away from Brenna and hopping lithely to his feet. "She's mine."

Dean spared the wizard a malicious glance. "You didn't get me, you didn't get my brother, and you're not getting her."

"She is _mine_! He led me to her!" The wizard took a step to the side, putting himself between Dean and Brenna.

Dean's jaw was so tight he thought he felt his teeth crack. His stomach muscles coiled, his fingers curled against his palms. Sweat ran unchecked down the sides of his face as the night air reached a peak that made the heat seem almost visible.

"We're done here, man," Dean said.

"No," the wizard shook his head, sliding toward Brenna once again. He spread his hands at his sides and Dean felt the pressure in the room increase. "No, this is not the way it happens. This is not the _way!_"

Adoamros began to mutter, a low hum of words that sounded like bees trapped against glass and made no sense. He stood between Brenna and her saviors, pinning her with position against the opened coffin of Lane Carter. Dean willed Brenna to move, screaming silently with every cell in his body.

_Move, baby, get away from him, GO!_

She seemed frozen to the spot, broken somehow. She simply stared at him, her eyes wide and predatory, though no one touched her. Blood and bruising marred her fine-boned features, her shirt was torn, her wrists and knuckles scuffed. Rage rolled inside of Dean, making him tremble.

"Sam," Dean said, his voice low.

"I got it," Sam replied, confidence etching the dimly lit room with certainty. Dean saw him reach to his back pocket and remove papers that he'd stuffed there back in the rail car.

The wizard's voice sped up as he slowly raised his arms away from his body. The room began to hum, pressure rattling the stained glass windows, wind emanating from an unseen source swirling around them, slapping the vines that grew in the corners of the stone room against the walls and sending thick cobwebs skittering across their faces. The candles flamed higher, illuminating the room and defying the power of the wind.

Sam began reading, hesitantly at first, his voice stuttering and stalling as the unnatural wind pushed at them from all sides. Dean took advantage as his brother pulled the wizard's attention and stepped toward Brenna. Just as he did, Griffin moved toward the knife.

"No!" Dean spat as Griffin reached out.

Griffin shot him a black look. "Stay out of this!"

Sam's voice rose in tempo with the wizard's, whatever he was reading managing to hold the wind at bay for a moment. Dean had lost track of Virgil in his efforts to get to Brenna and keep Griffin away from the Kestrel Dagger.

"It'll kill you!" Dean grabbed Griffin's sleeve

"Bull shit," Griffin snarled, shoving Dean backwards. "You think this pig sticker's gonna keep you from Hell?"

Sam's voice filled Dean's ears, desperation beginning to edge out composure.

"If Hell wants you, ain't nothing gonna save you, boy." Griffin reached for the knife once more.

Dean snapped.

All sound, all sensation, all fear, all worry, all regret, all hope slipped beyond his control and he attacked. He slammed into the older hunter, feeling the jarring impact echo through his weakened body as he bore them to the floor, Griffin's back taking the brunt.

Not allowing Griffin a moment to recover, Dean reared up and slammed his fist against the hunter's jaw, his silver ring opening up the man's cheek and splashing crimson across the stone floor. Dean hit him again, his throat beginning to vibrate from the low scream of anger and pain that shook loose from his gut.

"Dean!"

He heard his name, but it wasn't Sam's voice. He ignored it, hitting Griffin again, feeling the man go slack in his grip.

"Dean! Stop!"

A hand touched his shoulder and he turned, fist drawn back, blood in his eyes, ready to lash out. Two seconds before he struck, blue eyes registered in his vision and he pulled up short.

"Virge?" he croaked, awareness returning. He released Griffin, turning and searching the room for his brother. Virgil kept a loose grip on his bicep as they faced the battle of wills across the room.

The heat in the crypt was almost unbearable. Dean gasped as the breath was sucked from his lungs by the increasing wind. He searched frantically for Sam, seeing him across the room, papers before him flipping and folding in the gale, the tendons in his neck taut and straining, his face red from screaming Latin phrases back at the wizard.

In contrast, Adoamros looked eerily calm, showing for the first time since the brothers had encountered him a union with the magic that had elongated his life and stolen his humanity. His words were whispered, their volume stolen by the wind, his face pale and serene, his hands spread, one toward Sam, the other, Dean realized with horror, reaching back to Brenna, knowing instinctively that touching her could spell their doom.

"No," Dean whispered, looking at her.

She was pinned against the crypt, head back, lips trembling. Dean started to push to his feet, but stumbled, his body giving in to weakness. His head spun, his breath caught, and he felt the sensation of movement at his back, realizing belatedly that Virgil had grabbed his gun from his waist and was pointing it at the wizard.

"Stop it!" Virgil demanded.

As if batting a fly, Adoamros blinked in the blue-eyed man's direction and sent him flying. Dean's head whipped to the side as he watched Virgil hit the wall of the crypt, the gun slipping from his fingers. Dean reached back and grabbed his Bowie from its sheath tucked into his waistband. He stood and raised the knife in one motion.

"Wait," Griffin spoke up from his crumpled position at Dean's feet.

Dean didn't bother looking at him. He heard his brother's voice wavering, felt the heat of the room, the pressure of the power, saw the fear in Brenna's tight face and threw the knife at the wizard. As if bouncing off of an invisible shield, the Bowie ricocheted, flying back at Dean and causing him to drop to the floor to avoid being skewered. Virgil dodged, rolling away, arms covering his astonished features as he stared at what until now had been impossible.

Dean looked up, his eyes locking for one moment with Sam's. _This is it, isn't it_? Sam's eyes seemed to be asking.

"No!" Dean shook his head. "No way, Sammy." He looked at the wizard, seeing him reach back for Brenna, realizing what he was going to do a heartbeat before his fingers closed around Brenna's wrist. _Son of a bi—_

He wasn't able to complete the curse. As power connected with power, the room seemed to implode. He heard the start of Brenna's scream, the beginning of glass shattering, the first syllable of his name captured in his brother's rough voice.

Then all was silent and white.

_Thump-thump._

He was drifting, floating.

_Thump-thump._

He saw sparks, like fireworks in his mind.

_Thump-thump._

His face was wet.

_Thump-thump._

And his body hurt.

The sharp burst of pain in his chest when he finally drew a breath again brought him from the nothing of white space to the harsh, smoky reality of darkness. He coughed, pressing the flat of his hand against his chest, rolling to his side.

"Sam?" he tried. His voice was gone, stolen by heat and rage. He coughed again. "Sam?"

Only the sound of crumbling stone and falling glass met his ears. He blinked, his eyes watering as he peered around the darkened room, the candles having finally succumbed to the power of the wizard's wind. Virgil lay near him, eyes closed, chest moving in slow, even breaths. Griffin had rolled to a slumped, seated position, holding his head in his hands.

The wizard was standing across the room, staring straight ahead, his mouth agape, face pale, fingers still on Brenna's wrist. It was almost as if connecting with Brenna's natural-born power had shorted him out, sending the wizard's sense spinning. Dean shot his gaze to Brenna, feeling the slow thrum of his heart slam hard against the prison of his ribs.

She was standing behind the wizard, her battered form appearing smaller somehow, her eyes too large for her face, and, Dean saw with true fear, completely black. No gold edged the enlarged pupils as before. It was as if her power had taken over and there was nothing of Brenna left.

Their stance felt unreal, their stillness unnatural. Dean rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, blinking through the starlit room, trying to make sense of what was before his eyes. Coughing again, he pushed carefully to his knees, feeling oddly detached from his own body, his stomach dropping when he realized the one form he didn't see inside the ruined crypt was Sam.

"Sam!" He called, his voice sounding to his own ears like sandpaper on glass.

Something dripped into his left eye and he blinked it away, frowning as it stuck to his lashes. He swiped at it with the back of his hand and was slightly surprised to see his hand come back red.

"Answer me!" he called.

Virgil groaned beside him, stirring. Griffin still held his head, not moving. Dean used the wall to pull himself to his feet, hating the weakened tremble of his legs as they held his weight. He looked at the oddly frozen figures of the wizard and Brenna, aching to go to her, but anxious to see his brother in one piece.

"Sam, goddammit! You answer me _right now_!" He yelled, desperation lending strength to both his voice and his body. He took a step forward, glancing through the broken stained-glass window. One glance told him why Sam wasn't answering.

His brother lay outside the crypt in the rubble of the glass, unconscious.

"Oh, Jesus, Sammy," Dean breathed.

He stumbled forward, hauling himself through the broken door, falling to his knees, and crawling to his brother's side, clumsy fingers searching desperately for the beat of Sam's heart.

He felt dizzy with relief when the steady cadence met his search.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, cupping his brother's slack face with a bruised, dirty hand. "Open your eyes, little brother."

When Sam didn't comply, Dean carefully reached for his brother's shoulder, rolling Sam to his side, and slid his hands down Sam's back, searching. His fingers felt the wetness of his brother's blood, but not as much as he feared, and caught on several shards of glass. Wincing, Dean pulled Sam's limp body up into a semi-seated position, wrapping an arm around his brother's back, resting his head on his shoulder as he probed the back of Sam's head.

He felt a good-sized knot that was going to give Sam a headache for awhile, but no gaping wounds. The edges of his vision swirled in as he started to breathe again. He clutched at Sam a moment more, cold memory threatening to swamp him as he relived another moment where Sam's weight bowed his back and filled his arms.

"You're gonna be okay, Sammy," Dean whispered against Sam's hair. "You did real good in there."

The heat of the night seemed to surge around them and Dean gasped with the shock of it. Sam stirred slightly in his arms and Dean held on tighter, craning his neck to see around his brother's broad shoulders. He could barely make out the figures inside the crypt as the wan starlight filtered through the broken windows. He saw the starlight reflect off of Virgil's pale arm as he reached for Brenna.

"Brenna, honey," Virgil whispered. "Bren, look at me."

Dean felt his muscle tighten as Virgil's fingers found Brenna's skin. Her scream sliced Dean's heart. It was rage and denial and fear and need wrapped up in a hawk-like cry that tore through the graveyard, startling birds from trees and shaking Sam into awareness.

"Dean?" Sam mumbled, his mouth pressed to Dean's shoulder.

Dean didn't reply. He simply held his brother close, staring with confusion and awe as Brenna finally pulled free of the wizard's grip. She backed away until she was in shadow from the starlight, until he couldn't see her any more.

But he could hear her.

"Don't touch me," she rasped. "Stay away."

"Brenna, honey, it's me. It's Virge."

"Stay _back_!" Her voice broke on the final word and Dean felt Sam stiffen in his arms.

"Dean?" Sam said, his voice clearing as he pulled away from Dean's shoulder. "Ah!" he cried as the glass shards in his back made themselves known.

With burning eyes, Dean watched Virgil whirl and face the statue-like wizard, rage triggering nerve that had been dormant until this moment."You did this," Dean heard Virgil growl at the smaller man. "_You_ did this to her."

Dean eased Sam away from his body, holding his brother's face between his hands, their eyes meeting.

"Dean," Sam breathed, his eyes closing in pain. "Go." He pulled further away from Dean, and slumped against the side of the crypt as Dean struggled to his knees.

"I'll be right back," Dean promised, pushing himself upright and stumbling back into the crypt in time to see Virgil lunge for the wizard.

Adoamros took the hit, his face impassive, his body collapsing like a house of cards against the force of Virgil's fury. Dean's eyes darted around the floor of the crypt, searching for a weapon—his gun, knife, anything. His eyes caught on the Kestral Dagger.

And Griffin's hand closing over the amethyst hilt.

In that moment, Dean's world began to rotate in a miasmic kaleidoscope of colors and time, leaving him at the core, unable to affect even one of the events spiraling them all toward a tragic end. Adoamros came to life as Griffin grabbed the knife. The wizard struck back as Virgil advanced, sending the blue-eyed man to the floor in a gasping heap.

Adoamros rose with unnatural swiftness, moving with a hovering grace past the tilted coffin that cradled his brother's wasted body. Faded bits of a conversation saturated in pain and blood swam back to Dean as he bent quickly to feel around on the ground for the can of salt.

_I think he was talking to him…_

_Maybe he was…_

Adoamros' power had a source greater than spells. Something was enabling him to keep control of the dagger for all these years. Something was leading him to his victims. And Dean was betting all their lives that he knew what that _something_ was.

As the wizard focused on Griffin, Dean skirted the edge of the room, not daring to look at Brenna, unscrewing the cap on the salt can as he went. He stayed in the shadows, slipping between the coffin and the stone wall, keeping the body between himself and the others in the room.

"You're done, freak," Griffin smirked, standing, the dagger balanced expertly in his grip.

Adoamros didn't reply, he simply stood before Griffin, looking up at the hunter with a mild expression. Dean slipped a box of matches from his pocket, hoping the mummified strips of cloth would be enough to catch fire without the aid of accelerant.

"What are you grinning at?" Griffin scoffed, his voice edging on nervous. "You got nothing left."

"I have you," Adoamros purred. "And your greed."

As Dean started to dump the salt on the caved in chest of Lane Carter, he felt pressure against his belly, like a large hand shoving him back, pinning him to the wall. He groaned, fighting against the power, the can of salt falling from his numb fingers as he struggled. Through blurred eyes he watch Griffin raise the dagger, advancing on the wizard. He wanted to tell Griffin to drop the knife, to try one more time, but the fight to pull away from the wall overpowered his capacity to speak.

Pinned to the wall, the opened coffin between him and the older hunter, Dean watched helplessly as the candles once again sprang to life, burning blue, then surging up to a white-orange flame. He stared as Griffin and the wizard seemed to dance in the light of the flames, a slowly choreographed struggle for power and dominance over the diamond-studded blade. He clenched his teeth, straining against the frustrating immobility, working to reach the salt can once again. And then Griffin lunged.

Though pointed toward Adoamros, when Griffin thrust the knife forward, the blade shimmered, shifting in his grip, blade and handle swapping positions so that the knife now pointed at Griffin. Unable to stop his forward momentum, Griffin walked into the blade. It buried itself to the hilt in his body with a smooth, silent motion.

Dean flinched, narrowing his eyes to block both the heat and the sight of Griffin's shock as he fell to one knee. Dean felt the invisible grip at his middle go slack as Adoamros jerked the knife free, blood spilling across the blade and onto the wizard's hands. He began to chant, Latin slipping over his lips like syrup. Dean slipped down the wall, landing in a heap.

Griffin gasped, a strangled, desperate sound, and locked eyes with Dean. He fell forward, catching himself on one hand, then falling to his elbow and finally his back. Dean pulled further back into the shadow from the fire while Griffin's body shook, arched, then finally collapsed as his breath escaped one last time. It was over so quickly; one minute Griffin was fighting, the next, he lay still. Dean felt cold creep through him despite the heat.

He grimaced as the wizard faced him, voice rising, the blood slicked knife glistening in the light from the dancing flames. Shocked, Dean saw the blood being absorbed into the dagger's blade. A glow began to suffuse the weapon, traveling up Adoamros' arm to his body, his face reflecting spasms of pleasure.

In the next moment the candles died and the wizard was standing in front of Dean.

"Now," he whispered, his fetid breath skimming Dean's face, "I only need one more."

Dean snarled, lunged, but was slammed forcefully against the wall, the back of his head cracking painfully against the stone, the eerie feeling of fingers at his throat.

"Not gonna find his soulmate anytime soon," Dean rasped, straining away from the wall.

"That's the beauty of it," Adoamros said, his eyes flicking toward where Brenna hid in the shadows. "With her power… I no longer need the soul's _mate_… I simply need the soul."

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled through teeth clenched in fury. His gut twisted as the implications of what the wizard had done to Brenna shook him with brutal force. He needed to get to her. _Now._

The smell of death permeated the room, drifting in the heat-saturated air from the wasted, rotted body of Lane Carter.

"Gonna be hard to find the soul without your guide," Dean said, his lip curling in hatred and disgust, his body thrumming from abuse. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face mixing with the blood congealing there. "I'm gonna toast his ass."

Adoamros spared his brother's ashes a glance. "It won't matter," the wizard crooned, "he's a part of me."

Dean's eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. "Dude, you're _crazy_ on toast."

Adoamros stood, looking down at Virgil, then back at Brenna.

"Hey," Dean barked. "You want a soul?" He pulled his shoulders free from the grip of power, leaning forward.

"Don't bother," the wizard said, dully. "Yours was wasted in a desperate act. Hers," he tilted his head as he gazed at Brenna, "is of no more use to me. But… his…"

The wizard turned to Virgil, stepping forward gracefully.

"N-no, stop…" Dean heard Brenna breathe, her voice so broken that his heart skipped at the sound.

"Some wizard!" Dean taunted, straining against the invisible hold, feeling it weaken as the wizard focused on Virgil, who was slowly pushing himself away from the threat. He fumbled clumsy fingers into the pocket of his jeans, searching for the matches he'd stashed there. "You stirred up a little windstorm. Somebody call Guinness."

Adoamros glanced over his shoulder at Dean. "I _can_ silence you."

"Give it your best shot, Sparky," Dean snarled, working to ignore the tightening sensation at the base of his throat.

"You may not be able to feed me," Adoamros said, turning his back on Virgil and advancing on Dean, "but I'm tired of your… antics."

"Cry me a river," Dean strained, his throat working against the invisible grip. As he choked out words, the hold tightened, bruising skin and collapsing his airway. "The on-only reason you're st-still alive is… because… we…"

He was fading, the world graying, his breath all but stilled as his throat closed, choking him. The sound of the gunshot echoed in the hollow behind his ears and he felt all bonds released. He sagged to the floor, gasping, choking for breath, his world spinning.

"We thought you were human," Virgil said, darkly. "Turns out, we were wrong."

Dean lifted blurry eyes to see the faded image of the wizard holding his wounded arm, the knife blade glinting from the ground where it had fallen. Virgil sat against the wall, Dean's .45 clutched in his grip, its barrel shaking as he pointed it at the wizard.

"Sh-shoot him…" Dean said, his voice barely audible. "Vir-Virge, shoot the bastard!"

Virgil took aim once more, but with a snarl of anger, the wizard bent, grabbed the knife, and before Dean could so much as take another breath, he turned, slipped through the crumbling doorway, and headed out into the night. The knife gripped firmly in his hands, death on his mind.

"I-I couldn't… I couldn't do it," Virgil said, lowering the gun, obviously feeling the effects of the fight. "I'm sorry…"

Dean rolled his head weakly, turning to look at Brenna. He could see her hands clasped around her knees, her bare feet poking out, but the shadows hid her face, her eyes.

"What do we do now?" Virgil asked, his voice lost.

Dean swallowed, struggling to his knees and crawling the few spaces toward Griffin. The hunter was dead, his eyes barely parted, his lips white, flecks of blood drying at the corners of his mouth.

"I mean… we can't just let him go."

Virgil's voice became a low hum in Dean's background. He pulled himself painfully to his feet, gripping the edge of the coffin as he bent to retrieve the can of salt. Slowly unscrewing the lid, Dean covered the gaping maw of fractured teeth, the sunken chest, the fingers curled into claws, the crooked leg bones with the purifying mineral.

"He's going to kill someone else!" Virgil yelled.

"Not if I can help it," Dean said, his voice a soft shadow of Virgil's frustration.

He flicked the head of a match with his thumbnail, lighting the edges of the rags hanging from Lane's body. He did that in three more places, stepping back as the flames caught, burning the bones and filling the small area with an all-too-familiar stench. He backed away from the flames and trudged out into the dying night to check on Sam.

"You okay?" Dean said, crouching in front of Sam's slumped form.

Sam simply looked at him.

"Can you move?"

"Probably," Sam whispered. His fingers were blood-covered where he'd been working some of the glass shards from the backs of his arms. "Hurts like a bitch, though."

"You're going to be okay, Sammy." Dean traced gentle fingers down the back of Sam's torn shirt, counting the glass fragments still embedded in Sam's skin.

"What about," Sam swallowed, blinking heavy-lidded eyes as he lifted weak fingers to touch the new cut on Dean's forehead, then dropping to the bruises rising on Dean's neck. "What about you?"

"I'm okay," Dean said, rolling Sam toward him and grimacing at the sound of Sam's barely-suppressed whimper. "I burned the brother."

"Figured."

"Could slow him down." Dean winced as he pulled a shallow piece of glass free, feeling Sam shudder against him.

"Virge's right, Dean."

Dean sank slowly to his knees, Sam shifting with the motion to lie awkwardly against him. The night was ebbing, the sun working once more to take over the sky. The world began to slowly wake around them. What should have been a cool, dew-filled dawn, however, was simply a shift toward the impossible: more heat. It shimmered in the air around them, making movements sluggish, making breathing laborious.

In the distance, a train whistle cut through the hot silence, shaking Dean from a stupor of exhaustion. Sam's head was on his shoulder, hip against his thigh, breath hot on his neck.

"What?" Dean asked, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together. He felt like something inside of him had been dropped, cracking with tiny fissures, weakening to the point of shattering. "What did you say?"

"Virge is right," Sam repeated. "We can't just let him go. We have to finish this."

Dean looked over Sam's tangled hair to see Virgil crouching in front of where he knew Brenna was sitting, the fading fire throwing odd shadows across his back.

"Sam… Griffin's dead," Dean said, feeling as if the only thing keeping him together in that moment was the barrier of his skin. "Brenna's…" _Gone? Broken? Empty? _"Hurt. You're a pincushion. Virge isn't thinking straight."

"We gotta do this, Dean," Sam said.

"She's not coming out," Virgil said suddenly behind him. "She won't even say anything. Whatever that bastard did, she's buried so far down inside herself…"

"Virge—" Dean started.

"You do what you have to," Virgil said, looking once at Sam's back, his blue eyes electric in the morning like, off-set by dirt and bruises. "But I'm going after him. "

"What!" Dean started to push Sam away, started to get to his feet, unable to untangle himself quickly enough as Virgil stalked past them, Dean's .45 in his grip. "Virgil! Wait!"

"Go, Dean," Sam pushed him away weakly, "I'll be okay here."

"I'm not leaving you," Dean proclaimed. "I can't… I can't leave you two here."

"I'll be okay," Sam breathed. "I'll watch her until you come back." He started to push himself to his feet.

"Like hell!" Dean exclaimed. "You're cut-up pretty bad, Sammy."

"It's not as bad as—" Sam hissed as he stood, gripping the side of the crypt for balance. Dean stood with him, tucking his shoulder into Sam's chest, supporting him.

"Here," Dean said, "let's get you inside."

Sam didn't argue, his face pale in the early morning light. Dean eased him down inside the crypt near Brenna's hiding place, then, with a promise to be right back turned and headed out of the crypt toward the Impala. He felt the weight of his borrowed clothes on his skin as he moved, felt the air cling to his exposed skin like a blanket.

There was a hollow in his chest, and it echoed with each step, shaking through his pounding head and shimmering through his heavy limbs. As he reached the Impala, he saw Virgil rifling through the back of Griffin's black truck. He knew the paramedic was looking for more weapons, but was too weary to make something of it.

He opened the trunk, the train whistle sounding once more in the distance, the sound carried by the heat toward them. Shoving aside bags of clothes and weapons, he grabbed the med kit they were rarely without and closed the trunk.

"You go alone, you're going to get yourself killed," Dean pointed out, not looking directly at Virgil.

"Maybe," Virgil replied.

"What's she going to do without you, man?" Dean looked at him askance, surprising himself with the question.

Virgil lifted wounded eyes, his heart held there for Dean to see. "She never really needed me anyway."

Dean swallowed, looking down. "I think she needs you more than you know."

Virgil hopped down from the truck, a Sig in his one hand, ammo in the other, Dean's gun tucked into the front of his jeans. "If taking out this… this wizard guy brings her back… then nothing else matters."

Dean felt his heart stop, then sluggishly beat once more. Memories of Brenna hit him with force, staggering him slightly and causing Virgil to reach out instinctively.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

The flash of her eyes when she caught him in the garage at her grandfather's Inn, the hum of his skin as they touched, the taste of her mouth the first time, the taste of her body the last, the sound of her laughing, the sound of her yelling, the sound of her screaming, the soft whisper of truth as she saw more deeply into him than anyone had bothered to look…

"_Do you love her, man… it's okay if you do…"_

He vaguely recalled answering his brother, saying words he'd never thought he'd say aloud. He'd never said it to her, never trusted himself to really know if the emotions he felt around her were driven by honesty or need.

"'M okay," Dean muttered shrugging of Virgil's arm. "Don't go anywhere."

"Dean—"

"Dude, just," Dean pinned him with fierce eyes. "Just wait for me."

Not giving Virgil a chance to reply, Dean headed back to the crypt and to Sam. His brother hadn't moved and looked as if he might've passed out once more. Dean knelt in front of Sam, positioned between his brother and Brenna's hidden form. He opened the med kit, removing the scissors and touching Sam's arm carefully to warn him.

"I'm back, man," Dean said softly.

Sam frowned, but didn't open his eyes. He shifted slightly and Dean began to cut the T-shirt off of Sam's body. "At least the magic cuts are still stitched. Virge did a good job with that."

He wet a thick gauze pad with antiseptic and cleaned the cuts he could see along Sam's exposed arm. The bleeding had stopped.

"This might hurt a bit, brother," Dean said, keeping his voice low and calm.

He moved to Sam's back, biting his lip at the site of the three hunks of glass sticking into the muscles there. Using the over-sized tweezers Sam had purchased awhile back, after they'd finished the job at Roosevelt Asylum and Dean had half a dozen chunks of rocksalt embedded in his chest, Dean gripped the largest of the shards and pulled it cleanly from Sam's skin.

"Ah!" Sam woke with a cry. "Holy shit!"

"Easy, man," Dean crooned, resting his hand on Sam's bare shoulder, knowing from practice that touch was one of the only things to calm Sam down when he was hurt. "It's okay, Sam. It'll be over soon."

"What the hell, Dean…"

"Just hang in there… one minute… longer…" Dean pulled the second shard out as Sam bit his lip to quiet the scream building in his throat. "Almost… done… there."

Sam sagged against the wall, panting and trembling. Dean continued to talk calmly, keeping one hand on the back of Sam's neck as he cleaned the larger of the lacerations, removing the comforting touch only when he had to tape gauze patches over the wounds.

"You need to shift a little, Sammy," Dean instructed. "Gotta get to that other arm."

"Where is everybody?" Sam asked weakly. "Are they gone?"

"No," Dean said, glancing over his shoulder at Brenna. He wanted to see her face, but kept cleaning Sam's cuts. "They're still here. 'Cept Mr. Soul Eater. He ran off. There, you're all set."

Sam rotated until he could rest his back gingerly against the wall. "Feels better."

Dean grinned slightly. "Always were a lousy liar, Sam."

"The train," Sam said suddenly.

"Yeah, I heard it," Dean nodded, cleaning up the med kit.

"No, I mean, that's where he's going. Adoamros."

Dean frowned. "The train?"

"He's gonna ride the rails. Hard to track, get him to another town…"

"Wouldn't he want to bring the last one back to his brother? Or the cave?"

Sam shrugged slightly, wrapping his arms across his bare chest as if he were cold, though Dean could see sweat beading on the scabbed-over tattoo and gathering in the hollow of Sam's throat.

"If I were him," Sam said softly, "I'd jump on the train."

"Where's Virge?" came a soft voice from the shadows.

Sam jumped slightly and Dean looked over toward Brenna. "He's waiting for me outside."

"You're leaving?" Brenna asked.

"We're gonna… uh, we're gonna try to stop him," Dean said, shifting closer to the shadows, pausing only when he saw her pull her bare toes from the beam of light and closer towards her.

"Kill him," she said.

Dean looked down, feeling the fissures inside of him crack a little deeper at the venom in her voice.

"He isn't human anymore," Sam said softly, giving Dean an out.

His head down, Dean raised his eyes to Sam. "Watch her."

"I will," Sam promised.

"Brenna…" Dean tried, unsure how to say goodbye.

He didn't know how this was going to play out, but chances were high that one of them wouldn't return to the two that stayed behind. Unable to find the words, Dean stood, looked back once, then headed out to the heat of the day and Virgil.

www

Sam stared at Griffin's body.

They'd warned him. They'd tried to save him. And there he lay. Moving stiffly, Sam pulled his legs underneath him, rising to his knees and peering closer at Griffin's face. In his life, dead didn't always stay dead. And he'd never trusted Griffin.

"He's gone, Sam," Brenna whispered.

Sam jerked back as if she'd caught him in a lewd act.

"I know," he said defensively, "I just wanted to—"

"Will he be back?" She asked, her voice wounded and young.

It took Sam a moment to realize that Brenna wasn't talking about Griffin.

"He'll be back," Sam promised. He scooted closer to her, sitting at the edge of her shadow of protection. His back throbbed and he felt cold without his shirt on, despite the oppressive heat.

"Dean or Virge?" She asked.

_Dean_, Sam thought. "They both will."

"That wizard said my soul… he said it was… that it didn't have a mate," Brenna whispered, her voice catching on the confession.

"He's crazy, Brenna," Sam said, matching her volume. "Everyone has a match out there somewhere."

He'd never really thought about his match being his brother, but it made sense to him with all they'd been through in their lives. All they'd fought for and against. All they'd sacrificed for just one more day. One more chance. He looked closer into the shadow, able to see Brenna's drawn face in the dim light.

The broken expression, the bowed mouth, the haunted eyes stabbed deep into him, showing him a future he shrank from. A future without his brother, a future wandering lost, fighting evil for the sake of fighting, saving nothing, including himself. He saw himself bereft and alone, a useless husk of humanity trapped in a world without purpose or light.

_No way_…

He would save Dean, or die trying. And if the worst happened, if he lost Dean to the pit, if he lost Dean _at all_, he had the perfect example to follow in the wake of tragedy: his father.

John had returned to the only structure that hadn't abandoned him when Mary died. Being a soldier saved John's life, kept them all alive. Sam knew how to live like a soldier. He knew how to survive like one. He knew how to fight like one. He knew that he'd be able to save himself, and perhaps one day, save Dean.

"What's it like, Sam?" Brenna asked.

He scooted even closer, his wounded arm slipping under her shadow—not touching, but close enough that he could feel the heat from her body.

"What's what like?"

"Having that… having him. Having someone… sacrifice for you. Because of you."

Sam looked down, his eyes burning. "It's… hell."

Brenna sniffed. Sam didn't look up.

"It's everything you wanted and nothing you'd ask for," Sam continued. "I love my brother. But I hate him, too. And I… sometimes I can't find that line, y'know?"

"Hate him?"

"Because he…" Sam swallowed, his weary body weeping for him when his eyes lost the essence of tears. "Because he gives everything but never asks me what I want."

"You'd rather be dead?"

Sam looked over at her. "Rather than watch him die? Hell, yeah."

Brenna swallowed. "I'd rather be dead."

"Bren…"

"I don't want to see what I see. I don't want to see… anything."

Sam felt his inside tighten with her pain. He instinctively reached for her, needing to offer comfort through touch. Brenna sensed him and drew back.

"Don't!"

"Brenna, I—"

"God, Sam, please…" she begged, her voice cracking. "Don't touch me! It's… there's too much… too many voices…" She shuddered and Sam saw her press the palms of her hands to her temples. "The light is too bright."

With that whispered confession, she broke, tears wracking from her on broken-hearted sobs. Sam bit his lip, curling his hands into his fists. He didn't reach to touch her again. He simply sat against the wall as she cried, protecting her from the harsh light of day.

He knew there was only one thing that would heal her—he just didn't know if she'd ever allow it.

www

"This is an amazing car, but," Virgil said tightly, gripping the doorframe of the Impala's passenger window, "I don't think it can outrun a train."

"Don't need to out run it," Dean said briskly, his body rebelling with barely-suppressed whimpers as they bounced over the ruts in the field along the train tracks. "Just need to catch it."

"You're gonna tear up your suspension, man!"

"She'll hold together," Dean snapped, then winced as the Impala shuddered over a particularly deep rut. "Hear me, baby? Hold together," he murmured.

"There it is," Virgil called out. "I think it's stopped at the water tower."

"Fantastic," Dean slowed the Impala, pulling to a stop near a small clump of trees. He climbed out, wavering a bit as the heat wrapped around him, and closed the door. He looked around. "I better be able to find her again."

"You will," Virgil said, shoving a clip into the Sig he borrowed from Griffin's truck. "Here." He handed Dean the .45. "You might need this."

"You ready?"

Virgil swallowed, tucking the Sig into his waistband. "Hell no," he said. "I'm trained to save lives, not take 'em."

"Why are you here, then?" Dean asked, walking toward the caboose of the train as the squeal of metal on metal met his ears. The train was starting to move.

"'Cause I…" Virgil stopped talking as he jogged up to match Dean's strides. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

Dean nodded once. "I hear that."

The train began to pull away and the duo broke into a lope, grasping the metal ladder at the back of the caboose and pulling themselves up. Dean began to climb, making room for Virgil on the ladder.

"Now what?" Dean called down to him over the clacking of the wheels as the train picked up speed.

"Hell if I know!" Virgil called back.

Dean shook his head. _Way to think ahead, Winchester…_ He climbed up to the top of the caboose, crawling up and bracing himself on all fours as the train rocked. The roof was metal like the sides of the car, slightly sloped, with ridges every four feet running horizontally across the space and a vertical stretch of boards about three feet wide running the length of the car.

"He's on the train," Dean whined to himself, balancing on the flat of the board walk-way, "just go get him, get the knife, come on back. No problem."

"Who are you talking to?" Virgil called, crawling up beside him. The wind from the train's motion lifted his hat from his head, blowing it away before Virgil could catch it.

"My pain in the ass little brother," Dean grumbled, glancing over at Virgil, trying to get used to the sight of the man without the red baseball cap. "How are we going to figure out what car this guy's in?"

"Uhh…" Virgil looked around. "I'm gonna say… that one." He nodded forward as the train curved around a bend.

Four cars up, Adoamros stood in the opened door of a seemingly empty rail car, staring back at them.

"Huh," Dean folded his lips down. "Gotta say I did not see that coming."

"Let's go," Virgil started forward.

"Hold up," Dean grabbed his arm. "Listen, uh, if this thing goes south… I need you to promise me something."

Virgil frowned. "What?"

"Promise me that you'll… watch out for my brother. Keep an eye on Sammy."

Virgil swallowed and looked down. "I don't know what it is about you, man."

"What do you mean?" Dean released Virgil's arm.

"Last time you left, you asked me to look out for Brenna," Virgil pinned Dean with his bright blue eyes. "Keeping that promise changed my life."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"I don't think you do," Virgil replied. "See, you can go. Anytime. You love her, maybe, but you have this… this life that pulls you away. Like some kind of… superhero."

Dean simply watched him, his body aching from balancing on the top of the rail car, hot wind stealing the moisture from his eyes.

"And there's no competing with that. 'Cause whatever you feel about her… Brenna loves you, man."

Dean looked down.

"And Sam… I come back without you and Sam's not gonna make it."

Dean's eyes snapped up. "Yes. He is."

"I know you want to believe that, but—"

"I don't want to, I _have_ to." Dean started forward, the rest of his words tossed over his shoulder. "That knife might save me. Maybe. But no matter what, Sam is gonna make it."

"Hey, Dean," Virgil called, stopping Dean once more. "I promise."

Dean met Virgil's eyes, nodding. "Good. Now let's get this bastard."

He moved forward again until he reached the end of the caboose and looked down. The tracks swam dizzily beneath him, blurred with speed. The wind from the motion of the train pulled at his short hair and buffeted his shoulders.

"Jesus Christ," Virgil exclaimed, peering over the edge. "No way we'd survive a fall from here. Those wheels would chop us into dog chow."

Dean frowned at him. "Okay then, no falling."

"Right," Virgil nodded, still staring down.

Dean rotated on his belly, swinging his legs over the end and gripping the edge as he searched for purchase with his toes. Finding a lip on the side of the caboose, he balanced for a moment, taking a breath, then released his grip with one hand to reach across the opening between cars and grab the other ladder. He pulled himself across, then began to climb, willing Virgil to follow.

As he crested the top of the second, longer, rail car, the sun reflected brightly off a shiny surface above him, causing him to squint and duck. That last minute motion saved his life.

"Almost a century I've survived," Adoamros railed.

Dean pulled his gun free. "You just hadn't met the right hunter," he grunted, blocking another swipe of the Kestrel's blade with the barrel, knocking the wizard off balance.

Taking advantage of the space, Dean scrambled to the top of the car, standing on shaky legs, his gun up and ready.

"You think you can defeat me?!" Adoamros yelled, matching Dean's balanced stance, his eyes cold and wild.

"I think I already have," Dean shot back. He pulled the trigger, his shot going wide as the train rocked. He fired again, clicking on an empty chamber.

Cursing, he lunged at the wizard, dodging a slice of the Kestrel, going to one knee as the rocking of the train took his balance. He caught the image of Virgil moving past him, gun out, before he could regain his footing.

Virgil fired, his shot ricocheting as he staggered with the motion beneath his feet. Dean stood as Virgil fired again, this time catching the wizard on the cheek. Adoamros roared with pain and insult, flinging his arm viciously to the side as if banishing Virgil from his sight. When nothing immediately happened, the wizard blinked in astonishment, then physically crashed into Virgil's outstretched hand, the Sig flying from Virgil's grip and off the edge of the train.

Dean moved forward and the wizard rotated, turning his back on them and running. Dean blinked, confused.

"Dude's got magic on his side and he's running from two unarmed men? What the hell?"

"It didn't work," Virgil said, his legs loosely balanced with the rocking of the train. "He tried to throw me and it didn't work! He couldn't hurt me."

Realization dawned bright. Dean took off, running drunkenly after the wizard, working to catch him before he reached the end of the rail car. When Adoamros leapt, clearing the space between cars and landing in a staggered roll on the top of the next car, Dean skidded to halt.

The wizard looked back, laughing.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. "I was right!" he yelled over the clacking of the train at the wizard. "Your brother was your source of power and I smoked him!"

"Perhaps!" Adoamros yelled back, holding up the knife. "But I still have this!"

With that he turned and began to walk away.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me…" Dean took a breath, glancing over his shoulder at Virgil. Backing up several steps, he slipped the gun into his back waistband, then ran for the gap between the two cars.

The leap across the opening was done with his heart in his throat, his breath given to prayer, his eyes wide. He was so astonished that he cleared the distance he forgot to curl into himself and landed in a crashing heap, slipping toward the edge of the car roof, slapping the hot metal surface for purchase and finally stopping.

Catching his breath, he pulled himself to the boardwalk, checking quickly on Virgil, who had yet to make the jump, then turned to head after the escaping wizard.

"Hey!" Dean called, snarling in satisfaction when the wizard froze. "I'm not done with you."

The air around him flared up with heat, as if the motion of the train and wind wrapping around him, slamming him with the speed of its ferocity, mattered not at all. The wizard turned and advanced; as he did Dean felt the remaining moisture in the air slip away. He opened his mouth in a desperate gasp for air, his eyes burning, blurring, disoriented.

The wizard's first hit took him across the cheek, sending him stumbling back. He caught his balance and swung back, burying his fist into the soft flesh of the other man's stomach, feeling a powerful rush when he was able to hurt him.

The wizard was just a man. Flesh, bone, and blood. And he should have been dead a long time ago.

Dean hit him again, driving the wizard backward, unprepared for the sweep to his legs that took him down, slamming his back roughly against the metal roof, the ridges bruising his ribs, the barely-healed sores screaming in pain. His air escaped in a rush and he raised his arms to block the swings as the wizard sat astride him.

Twisting his body, he unseated the smaller man, catching with that motion the sight of Virgil landing in a rolling heap on the roof near him. Nodding once as Virgil regained his balance, Dean flipped around, coming up in a cat-like crouch, facing the wizard once more.

"You've got one chance to make it out of this, Carter," Dean said, purposely humanizing the little man. "I'll buy that knife from you."

Adoamros laughed bitterly. "You want to _own_ it? You want to harness its power?"

Dean said nothing.

"You will have to kill me," Adoamros hissed.

"Have it your way," Dean shrugged, tightening his hands into fists. "You coulda made twenty bucks."

Adoamros snarled, an animal sound of insult and rage, then lunged at Dean with the Kestrel dagger. The blade slipped across Dean's forearm, opening his skin and spilling his blood before Dean could jerk back. The wizard laughed maniacally in triumph, but Dean simply stepped into the man's space, cracking his elbow up and across the wizard's face, then finishing the blow with a back-handed slap.

Adoamros staggered back and Dean pressed his advantage, shoving his thumb into the bullet wound on the wizard's arm, digging deep. Adoamros screamed and jabbed at Dean again. Dean's dodge to avoid the blade sent him off-balance and he staggered, slipping from the boardwalk and crashing to his knees on the ridges of the metal roof with a cry of pain.

Virgil appeared in that moment, running at the wizard, weaponless, apparently looking to knock the wizard from the train with the force of his body. He slammed into Adoamros, but was flung aside by the surprisingly strong smaller man, tumbling to his knees, but unable to catch himself. He slapped at the metal surface, his eyes shooting up once to catch Dean's.

Dean watched in horror as Virgil tumbled over the side of the rail car.

"_No_!"

Adoamros ignored Dean's protest stalking forward, knife at the ready. Dean shoved upward, weakness falling by the wayside, aching body, trembling heart, hardening to steel, pulling strength from seemingly limitless reserves as he surged forward. His attack was purposeful, vicious, unrelenting. He slammed his fists into the wizard's body, his face set, jaw hard, eyes like stone. He heard the wizard protesting, heard English mixed with Latin, but didn't care.

He was going to beat the man to death if that is what it took.

Dean was silent in his fury, absorbing the minimal hits the wizard was able to get in as he backed the man to the edge of the train car. Panting, he curled his fist in the wizard's shirt front when Adoamros went to his knees.

"I'm taking that knife," Dean said darkly.

"You can go to hell," the wizard replied, spitting a mouthful of blood toward Dean, his eyes barely open.

"Not today," Dean snarled, raising a fist for another blow, lips curled in a snarl of hate.

"Help!"

Dean paused as the weak plea met his ears, awareness seeping in. The sun beat with unforgiving force down on them, reflecting on the metal surface, searing their skin. In the distance, the train whistle blew. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean registered a tunnel approaching.

"Dean! Help me!"

Dean dropped his fist, looking over toward the edge where he'd seen Virgil fall. He was shocked to see Virgil's fingers gripping the edge of the rail car, knuckles white.

"Virge?!" Dean cried out, going to his knees and crawling toward the edge, his back to the beaten wizard. His belly on the hot metal roof, Dean leaned over and saw Virgil hanging from the rail car, his legs slapping against the side of the box with the fury of the wind.

Dean immediately reached down and grasped the older man's forearms. Virgil awkwardly released the border of the train and gripped the muscled edges of Dean's arms, the blood from the recent knife wound making the hold tenuous.

"Is he dead?" Virgil yelled.

Dean saw Virgil's eyes latch onto his bloody, bruised hands.

"Almost," Dean called back. "Hang on, man, I'll pull you up!"

The whistle blew again and Dean and Virgil instinctively looked toward the front of the train. The tunnel loomed close. Dean shot a look over his shoulder. The wizard was pushing himself slowly to his feet, the Kestrel Dagger still clutched in his hand. Dean looked back at Virgil, his eyes desperate.

Sacrifice was a hell of a thing, Dean knew. It was both selfish and selfless, provided relief in tandem with terror. He had only seconds to make the choice between Virgil and the knife—both choices a different form of salvation.

_I'm sorry, Sammy_. Dean closed his eyes.

Opening them again, he locked eyes with Virgil. "No matter what happens," he yelled over the whistle, "don't let go."

"Aw, _fuck_…" Virgil bleated, gripping Dean tighter.

Dean kept his head low, tucking his chin into his shoulder, and slid his eyes askance to the wizard. Just as the ancient M.E. stood upright, the train encountered the tunnel. The wizard looked at Dean, seemed to see the horror there, then turned in time to slam against the solid stone of the tunnel entrance face-first.

Over Virgil's reverberating cry of fear, Dean heard the sickening crack of flesh and bone liquefying against the immovable rock surface, felt the hot splash of blood across his back and across his arms, and swallowed the rush of bile as what was left of the wizard's body crashed against him as it tumbled from the roof of the train to be crushed under the wheels, the Kestrel Dagger following suit.

After what seemed like years in darkness, the train exited the tunnel. Panting, Dean looked down at Virgil, silently praying that the man was still in one piece. Virgil looked back up, his blue eyes wide.

"Do you believe that just happened?" he squeaked.

Dean shook his head slowly.

"Get me up," Virgil said.

Dean strained, pulling as Virgil searched for a toe-hold, the wounds on his back breaking open with a searing pain. Groaning, he leaned as far back as he could, helping Virgil scramble up the side of the train. They rolled to finally lay still on the roof of the car, panting for breath.

"Holy shit," Virgil gasped.

"I know," Dean rasped, his voice the first to finally succumb to the beating he'd given his body.

"No, man, I mean…" Virgil slowly sat up. "Holy… _shit_."

Dean agreed, but was unable to do much more than lay there. His back throbbed, the wounds Brenna had treated punished beyond endurance. He felt the sticky wetness on his skin from the rock salt wounds, his head throbbed from the cut near his scalp, and bruises he'd ignored stood up to be counted.

"Dude… you feel that?"

Dean groaned. "You're gonna have to be more specific." He blinked, trying to bring Virgil into focus.

Virgil puffed out a breath and Dean finally saw what he meant.

It was cooling down. Rapidly. They could see their breath as the wind whipped around them. Dean began to shake, small trembles at first, inside, around his heart. He clenched his fists.

"I think the train is slowing down," Virgil announced, his eyes tracking the gore that ran the length of the rail car roof.

Dean nodded, trying to still his visible trembles.

"You okay?" Virgil asked.

Dean shook his head. His strength was gone. His _chance_ was gone. He was wounded and aching and back at square one. And he had no idea how far away they'd traveled from Sam.

"I don't see the knife," Virgil said quietly, _I'm sorry_ implied in his tone.

"I know," Dean mumbled. "It's—"

Before he could finish his sentence, he caught his breath against a hot, searing pain that sliced across his belly, his chest, his arm, his thigh. He tore at his too-big shirt, feeling for sure that he would witness his skin opening, exposing his life's blood for all to see. The burning intensified to an almost unbearable peak and he saw white, crying out as his back arched. Virgil was beside him, whispering meaningless words, moving his hands away, trying to see.

"There's nothing there," Dean finally heard.

Gasping he ran his fingers across the cooling skin of his belly, realizing that Virgil was right. As the pain passed, he struggled to his elbows, allowing Virgil to help him sit up. He pulled his shirt up, peering closely at the muscled ridges across his belly. There was _nothing_ there. Not even the scars left behind from a knife that hadn't touched him.

"They're gone," he gasped. "The scars… they're gone…" He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. "Sam… I need to get to Sam," he looked over at Virgil. "We need to get back."

"Okay," Virgil nodded, gripping Dean with a strong arm as the hunter sagged with exhaustion. "We'll just, uh…" Virgil looked around. "You got any idea where we are?"

www

"Yeah, I'm okay," Sam said into his cell phone. "I'm sure, Dean. It hurt like hell for about five minutes, and I think I scared away a few birds yelling like I did, but… yeah, just like you said, the cuts are gone."

Sam looked over at Brenna who was on her knees near him, not touching him. She had scooted close when Sam had suddenly cried out, his back tensing, his hands going to his bare chest in a desperate search for relief.

"Yeah, I figured it out when it dropped like fifty degrees in five minutes," Sam told his brother. "Dean… what about the knife?"

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes as he listened to Dean tell him that the knife was gone. The reason they were there, that they suffered so much, that Brenna sat before him, wounded and broken, that Griffin was dead… was gone.

"Yeah, I'm here," Sam said softly. "Let's just talk about it when you get back." Sam paused, listening to the complete weariness he heard under his brother's voice, the bravado masking the pain Dean had been ignoring since they left the motel room. "What do you mean, come to you? Where are you?"

He looked at Brenna, watching her watch him.

"You just… _left_ the Impala?" Sam exclaimed, incredulous. "Yeah, I'm good to drive. Not much else, but, yeah. Yeah… yeah, she'll come. You, uh… you be careful, okay?"

Sam closed his phone, sliding it back in his jeans pocket. He smiled weakly at Brenna.

"They're okay," he said. "Well, they're both on their feet and talking. Dean's definition of 'okay' is a bit… random."

Brenna's shoulders sagged and Sam shivered.

"We have to take Griffin's truck and meet them."

"What about… him?" Brenna looked over her shoulder at Griffin's body.

"We leave him here," Sam grunted as he pushed himself painfully to his feet. "I'm gonna call a friend. He can help."

Unthinking, he reached down for Brenna's hand to help her up, withdrawing it only when she looked away.

"C'mon," Sam said, bending carefully to retrieve his brother's knife. "We need warmer clothes."

Brenna stood, walking ahead of Sam out of the crypt as if her legs were made of glass. Sam looked down at Griffin, rubbing tired fingers across his mouth.

"I'm sorry we couldn't save you, man," Sam said softly. With a grimace, he bent, patting the dead hunter's pockets and searched for keys. Pulling them out with a handful of change, he looked around for something to cover the body. Finding nothing, he closed Griffin's eyes, then laid two coins on the dead man's lids.

"See you on the flipside," he said softly, then stood, wavering slightly, catching his balance. He pulled his cell phone back out, dialing Bobby's number.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Sam. Listen, we, uh… we need your help. We're still in Brookville and uh…" he sighed into the message. "Look, Griffin's dead. His body is in a crypt in a cemetery outside of Brookville. Crypt's name is Carter. It's a long story, but… we're beat to hell, and I have to find Dean, and… I just… could you help us take care of him? Thanks, Bobby."

When he reached the truck, Brenna was in the back, looking through the bags Griffin had stashed there. Silently, she handed Sam a shirt which he slipped on, gingerly avoiding the field dressing on his back. He watched as she pulled off the remains of her tattered T-shirt, grabbing a long-sleeved white T-shirt from Griffin's bag and pulling it over her black bra. She rolled up the sleeves to expose her hands, then grabbed some socks.

"No shoes," she shrugged.

"It's okay," Sam said, eager to get to the next town and get his brother back.

They climbed into the cab of the truck, Brenna pressed against the door, as far from Sam as she could physically get in the small confines of the front seat. Sam started the truck engine, letting the radio station Griffin had been listening to fill the tense interior of the truck with silence-canceling music.

"_Train roll on, on down the line, please take me far, away. Now I feel the wind blow outside my door, means I'm leaving my woman at home…"_

Sam looked sideways at Brenna as he pulled away from the crypt. He wanted to believe that she was going to be okay. That they were all going to make it out of this, in one piece, victorious. But he couldn't help but feel that fate had tangled them up for a reason, leaving some broken, some alone, and some unable to be repaired.

He pulled back onto the road, heading to the town about 10 miles away from Brookville, focusing only on getting to Dean, getting him back.

Because he wasn't strong enough to learn from fate's lessons.

Not alone.

www

She hadn't said a word to him.

Not when Sam found them at the train depot. Not when Virgil had lifted him beneath the arms, hauling his barely-functioning body into the back of the truck. Not when they'd found the Impala. Not when a switch of drivers and a quick round of rock, paper, scissors put Sam behind the wheel of the Impala and Virgil in the black truck.

She hadn't said a word when they stopped at the police station, reporting to a shocked-looking Calhoun and a thankful Ross that the reason it was so cool was that the wizard was dead. The killings were over. Life could return to their version of normal.

She hadn't looked at him when they'd stumbled into the hotel, thanking the clerk with dull voices when he handed them a message from Bobby saying _call me. _

She hadn't so much as whimpered the entire time. She seemed to barely breathe.

"Two hours sleep isn't enough, man," Virgil pointed out from behind him.

"I'm okay," Dean replied.

He stood in front of the hotel room bureau, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. Bracing his hands on the mahogany edge, he leaned his jean-clad hips against the wood, eyes boring into eyes, searching for something that said _you did good._ With a glance to the left he could see Sam reflected in the mirror as well, sitting on the edge of the bed, showered, in a clean pair of jeans, his chest bare. Virgil was positioned behind him, patching up the worst of the glass cuts.

"You are hanging on by your fingernails is what you are," Virgil argued. "You're pale, your hands are shaking, and don't think we can't see those circles under your eyes."

Dean looked back at himself. His face looked drawn, thin, his skin eerily transparent. Butterfly bandages sealed the wound at the base of his scalp. Fresh bandages pulled the punctured skin of his back together. Bruises aged his features. His bare chest was bruised and bloodstained, the tattoo showing up in stark contrast to the sunburned hue of his skin. He felt as if the fissures in his internal wall could easily undo years of shoring up if allowed to grow.

This hunt had started as a quest for a resolution to the deal he'd made for Sam's life and turned into a battle for humanity.

"Sam?" he called softly, hating the hollowness he heard in his own voice.

"Hmm."

"You really think the knife woulda worked?" Dean asked, his green eyes shimmering in contrast to the purplish haze of his skin.

"I don't know," Sam said, tiredly. Dean knew his brother was hurting. He could hear it in the tightness of Sam's voice, see it in the careful way he held his body. He was proud of him for staying quiet as Virgil worked. "I honestly don't know…"

The room was quiet for a moment, the hum of the heating unit ticking in the background.

"He wasn't that different from me, y'know," Dean said softly.

"Who? Carter?" Virgil asked, incredulity plain in his voice.

"He used magic, that knife… he killed people just so he could stay with his brother."

"You haven't killed anyone, Dean," Sam said.

"Griffin's dead," Dean pointed out.

"He's dead because he wouldn't listen to us," Sam replied.

Dean was silent. It all came down to choices. The choice to live, the choice to die. The choice to sacrifice, the choice to confess. The choice to fight, the choice to give in.

In the next room, Dean heard the radio come to life. Brenna had stepped through the adjoining door a few hours ago when they'd arrived, left it partly open, and fallen on the bed in an exhausted heap. Dean had followed shortly after on one of the queen beds in Virgil's room after washing the wizard's blood from his wounded back and changing into his own clothes. He'd woken abruptly when his dreams took him under the wheels of a train, the wizard's laughter ringing in his ears.

Static scratched the quiet as a dial was turned in the adjoining room. Sam hissed as Virgil repaired his damaged back. Dean stared at himself in the mirror, trying to find something in the reflection of his eyes that would tell him what choice he should make now.

"_I have seen too many sad eyes look at me. The eyes that set me free. All the places that I've been…"_

"You're a mess, man," Virgil said softly. "I don't have much by way of pain meds."

"I'm okay," Sam said, stalwartly echoing his brother.

"This bruising is _not_ okay," Virgil said. "I mean, what is it with you two? You have to literally be camping out on death's door to admit you need help? This shit hurts, man! I know! I put street fighters back together. I've seen men twice your size break down and cry with a knife wound. _One_. Not… three."

"It wasn't a knife," Sam said.

"Whatever, man," Virgil sighed. "You're just lucky it didn't go too deep into muscle. You need—_both_ of you need—sleep. Lots of it." He stepped away from the bed rubbing a hand across his face. "And I need a shower."

As if on cue the sound of water being turned on in the next room followed Virgil's words.

"You ever have a paper cut, Virge?" Sam asked. Dean slid his eyes to his brother's face, meeting Sam's gaze in the mirror as he spoke.

"Paper cut? Hell yeah, I've had a paper cut."

"You been shot?"

Virgil was quiet. "No."

"You get a paper cut," Sam said, still looking at Dean, "it stings, right? Sometimes, depending on where it is, it hurts like hell. You almost can't think of anything else, it's that annoying."

Dean felt his chin tremble as he watched Sam's reflection.

"You get shot, though, and the paper cut is nothing," Sam continued. "You forget you even had it. The paper cut doesn't matter 'cause the pain the bullet caused is so much bigger, y'know?"

Dean closed his eyes, unable to take the honesty in Sam's hazel eyes. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the mirror. Listening.

"So… these are paper cuts? That what you're saying?" Virgil said, trying to follow Sam's line of thinking.

Dean heard Sam's voice change as his brother gained his feet and moved closer to him.

"I'm saying that sometimes there are things that hurt worse than you can see. Things you can't put bandages on."

"Like losing that knife," Virgil guessed.

"Among other things," Sam said, his voice tight. Dean kept his eyes closed. "The knife was a shot at getting out of this deal."

"So… it's gone…" Virgil hedged. "Now what?"

"We keep looking," Dean and Sam intoned together, not looking at each other.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Virgil said softly.

"There's always something else," Dean whispered, his thoughts bouncing from the haunting sensation of bleeding without being cut, to the odd realization that talking about his dream had healed his bruises, to the heavy-hearted discovery that his childhood had been his father's secret treasure.

"Dean," Sam said quietly, moving closer. Dean sensed a sudden lack of space and opened his eyes, meeting Sam's in the mirror. "You need to go in there."

Dean rolled his lip against his bottom teeth. "I can't, Sammy," he said softly, knowing what his brother was asking him to do.

"You're the only one who can," Sam replied.

"Can what?" Virgil asked, sounding slightly anxious. "What did I miss?"

"I go in there," Dean said, hating the thickness in his voice, "and it's goodbye."

Sam looked down, pressing the thumb of one hand into the palm of the other. "It's goodbye any way," he said. "You know that."

"You're talking about… Brenna," Virgil said

Dean pulled away from the mirror, looking at himself one last time, willing the cracks to seal up, just for tonight. He didn't want to break down tonight, no matter how much he hurt, how tired he was.

He turned, facing the other two occupants in the room. Sam's eyes, tired, understanding, sad. Virgil's eyes, worried, cautious.

"Okay," Dean said, nodding at Sam. He looked directly at Virgil. "Okay."

Virgil swallowed, looking away. "You do what you have to do," he said tightly.

"Virge—"

"Hey," Virgil interrupted, looking back at Dean. "It's okay, man. It is. Sometimes… things just… are." He rubbed a rough hand over his forehead, ruffling his thinning hair, then closing his blue eyes. "Thanks for saving my life."

"Thanks for keeping your promise," Dean replied.

Virgil shrugged. "Man's only as good as the promises he keeps."

Without another word he moved away from the brothers and into the bathroom. Dean blinked, looking back at Sam as the music in the other room faded, another song quickly taking its place.

"Just… be honest with her, man," Sam said softly. "I mean, she knows what you're facing. Let her know how you feel."

Dean looked down. "I'd rather face Hell."

"Well," Sam stepped forward, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Consider this practice."

Dean lifted the side of his mouth in a weak smile, turning away and heading to the adjoining doorway.

"…_You're getting closer, to pushing me off of life's little edge, 'cause I'm a loser and sooner or later you know I'll be dead. You're getting closer, you're holding the rope and taking the fall…"_

When Dean stepped into Brenna's room, he slipped the door shut behind him. The sound of the shower warred with the music from the radio, shutting out all other sound, cutting them off from the other room and its occupants. Shuffling barefoot across the carpet, he made his way to the bathroom, tipping the door open with his fingers.

The shower curtain was pulled, but he could see her shadow silhouetted against the white plastic. She was sitting on the floor of the shower, her knees up, her head in her hands. He heard her speaking, but couldn't make out the words. It took him a moment to realize it was Gaelic.

"Brenna," he said quietly, trying not to startle her.

"Go away," she said, not moving.

"No," Dean replied.

"Dean, just… I don't want to see you right now."

"Well, I want to see you," he said, stepping to the outside of the curtain. "I want… I want you to…"

"Talk? Share my feelings? Get it all out in the open?"

She stood and shoved the curtain back, standing before him wet, naked, her eyes once more their unusual golden color, but so destroyed it almost hurt him to look at them. Her hair hung down her back, slicked against her skull. Her bruises shone painfully in the harsh light of the bathroom.

Dean kept his eyes on hers, refusing to comb her body with his gaze as his instinct screamed at him to do.

"I want you to let me touch you," Dean said quietly.

He grabbed a towel, handing it to her. When she took it from him, he shut off the water. He waited as she wrapped the towel around herself, wringing her hair out, the water splashing on the floor of the bathtub.

"_He_ touched me," she said, her bravado wavering.

"I know he did," Dean said softly as she stepped from the shower.

"He… took something from me," she said, moving past him into the cool of the bed room.

Dean watched as she dropped her towel, sliding on a pair of briefs and a _Slippery When Wet_ T-shirt before turning around. He wanted to hide his body's reaction to the sight of her nakedness, but she was looking at his face, nowhere else.

"Do you know what it's like to be… stolen like that?"

"No," Dean replied softly, the music providing a shield for them to hide behind, protected from the world.

"…_But I will not hide you through this. I want you to help and please see the bleeding heart perched on my shirt…"_

He stepped closer to her, the heat from her body slipping neatly beneath his bare skin, the smell of her filling his senses. She took a step back, sinking slowly to her bed. He stood where he was, watching her. She backed away further onto the bed, drawing her knees up.

"I saw you die," she whispered. "All of you."

"We didn't die," Dean pointed out.

"But you will."

"Everyone dies," Dean tried.

"I saw Sam stabbed in the back and fall into your arms," she said, her voice hushed, fragile. Dean swallowed, hard. "You told me that had really happened. I saw you shredded, your chest ripped to ribbons." He blinked, knowing only that Hellhounds would one day be on his trail. "Have you been torn up lately, Dean?"

"No," he said quietly.

"I saw Virge—" her voice caught at that, unable to finish. "I've never seen the future before."

"It's not the future," Dean said. "It's only your fear. Nothing is in stone, Brenna. Not until we make it that way."

"You sold your soul," she protested. "That seems pretty stone-set to me."

"_Nothing_ is in stone," he repeated. "There's always a chance, right? And even if…" he stepped closer to the bed. "Even if we all die bloody… it doesn't mean we don't die fighting."

Brenna's breath caught in a sob. Dean stopped moving, waiting with shallow breath for her to speak again.

"What are we doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… You're going to leave, aren't you?"

Dean didn't reply.

"You're going to walk away."

Dean looked down.

"So… what are we doing? Why are you here, Dean?" She scooted forward on the bed, causing him to back up a step with the ferocity in her shaking voice. "You want a good-bye lay? You want me to fall into your arms, thank you for saving me?"

He resisted the instinct to snap back at her, to react to her anger as she was goading him to do. He knew she was working to push him away, too afraid of what it might feel like to heal. He didn't know how to give her what she really needed. He had a job to do, and at the moment, there was no room in his life for anything—for _anyone_—else.

"I want to give you back… what you lost."

"You can't." She said it with such certainty that he almost took another step back.

"You can't be sure."

"What he took from me…" she swallowed. "I thought I could take him, Dean. I thought… I thought I was stronger than he was."

Dean watched her, his eyes darting between her mouth and eyes.

"All I could think about at first was getting him away from you. There was so much blood…" She swallowed. "And then… the things I saw when he touched me… I was wrong to want that power back."

"Your power is a part of you, Brenna. It makes you who you are."

"Well, I don't want to be _me_ anymore."

Dean licked his lower lip. "I don't know if we get that choice."

"Says who?"

They stared at each other a moment, the music humming in the background, late afternoon sunbeams tossing dust particles through the thick, drawn curtains.

"Tell me one thing," Brenna asked, water clinging to her lashes, turning her eyes innocent. "Did you ever… love me?"

Dean lifted his eyes, letting his heart show. "Yes," he replied.

She swallowed and dropped her gaze. He didn't know which direction to move, afraid to push, afraid to leave. He needed a guide, he need a light. She reached out her hand to him. He almost didn't take it, aware of what might happen to her—to him—if she were able to strip him bare once more as she'd done so many times in the past.

When he hesitated she whispered, "Please. I don't know what else to do."

Stepping up to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress between her legs, he leaned close, letting his breath caress her face, then took her hand, weaving his fingers with hers. Her gasp pulled him in and as her head dropped back, he closed his eyes, falling into sensation, music filling the empty spaces of the room.

"_Can you remember when...when we used to cry, but never in distress. Or can you picture then how we used to pride ourselves on neatness… 'Cause I can't understand, what you meant to me. You made me wild, then you tied my hands…"_

Brenna sighed as Dean rolled against her, eyes closed, burying his face in the damp crook of her neck, breathing in the wet perfume of her hair, images flooding his senses. He'd never before seen what she saw, but something broken inside of her sought healing in the fractures of his borrowed soul. He opened up, showing her the moments of his life, the choices that led him to this moment, this bed, these arms.

He let her see the pain of loss he'd buried deep. He let her see the sorrow of failure that held him back. He let her see the fear, the unrelenting terror of a future he hurtled toward, resisting the choice he'd willingly made.

He wrapped his arms around her slim, strong back as she saw tears he never showed, felt her leg hook over his hips to draw him close as he let her see his escape into faceless women, searching for the sensation of touch, misery seeking company. He slipped his hand down the small of her back, tucking his fingers beneath the waistband of her briefs, feeling the silk of her skin as she dove head first into his nightmares, seeing his personal Hell, seeing his torture.

Her lips found his, his tongue sliding deep into the warm recesses of her mouth as she pulled poison from his memory, her hand stroking his bare chest as though caulking the cracks in his reserve with her touch. He heard her whisper to him, her mouth against his ear, meaningless phrases that comforted, consoled, promising nothing but now.

Tightening his arms around her, he rolled her on top of him, slipping her T-shirt over her head and letting her wet hair drift in thick tendrils across his face. She worked her slim fingers under his waistband, unfastening the button and sliding the zipper loose. In moments there was only skin and breath and scent.

Dean pressed his lips to her neck, desperate to touch, to taste, to own. He wanted to brand her, mark her as _his_. No matter what happened next. No matter who else touched her. They would never touch her this way. They would never see what he saw. They couldn't feel this connection.

"Mo chroi," Brenna whispered, her hands skimming the wounds on his back, her lips against his bruised cheekbone.

"What does that mean?" he asked, tracing her jaw line with his mouth.

"My heart," she said. "I'll show you."

"What do you—"

Dean gasped in surprise as her lips met his again amid a torrent of images. He saw himself through her eyes, felt the rush of sensation as they touched, felt the thrill in her gut as they became one.

He was swept away by sensation, almost not feeling her hand on him, stroking him, teasing him. His body felt as taut as a guitar string. He gripped her shoulders, rolling her to her back, settling himself between her legs, feeling her breathe in sharply as he entered her, burying himself deep, filling her as the pictures from her life scattered through his brain like a mental scrapbook. They fell in quick succession, fading, slipping, receding until once again there were only two people, in a bed, music as their protection.

"I've lost you," she gasped, arching up as he thrust deep.

"I'm here," he whispered. "Open your eyes." He held his body still until she complied, sinking in once more when he saw her look back at him. "I'm right here."

"_So tell me you need me and I will stay. You believe me and I will wait. That you'd come back for me every time I fall. In your heart there's just no place, there's no room to make a mistake, and with one wrong turn you would never make it home…"_

"Hold onto me," she pleaded, wrapping her legs around his waist, her hands at his neck, pushing up to fill herself with him. "Hold me tighter."

Dean scooped her up, sitting back on his rear, setting her in his lap, connected to her. She rocked, gasping at the sensation. He kissed her jaw, her chin, skimming her lips, then ran his mouth down the bow of her throat as she dropped her head back. His thumb skimmed her nipple, making her shudder.

Their bodies took on the primal rhythm inherent to need and lust, rocking with effortless motion, tension building to a peak. Dean felt her release, felt her quake around him, causing him to surrender, sparks of light dancing behind his closed lids, his breath stuttering in his throat as he worked to breathe.

In moments he came back to himself, laying on his side, Brenna sprawled next to him, her head on his arm. He reached out and brushed her damp hair from her face, watching as she blinked her eyes open.

"We're in a bed," she said, her rosebud mouth quirking with a shadow of her old humor.

"Wondered if you'd notice."

"What happens now, Dean?" she asked, rolling toward him, seemingly unable to break their tenuous contact.

He sighed, closing his eyes, his hand on her shoulder. "I wish I knew."

"Fight more bad guys?"

"Always bad guys to fight," he said quietly, rolling her closer to him, needing her warmth.

"So you'll walk away."

He was quiet, absorbing the feeling of her body against his, the serenity of the moment.

"I can't just walk away from you," he confessed. "I can't just leave."

"You can't be everywhere, though, can you?" she said, tracing his tattoo with the tip of her finger. "Not even Superman could do that."

"Batman."

"Batman was just a man," she said softly.

"So am I," Dean replied, kissing the top of her head.

The music faded into the background as weariness overwhelmed him. The comfort of Brenna's body by his side, the softness of the sheets beneath his bare skin, the darkness of the room all played a part in helping him succumb to the will of his exhaustion.

He slipped over the edge of sleep with her words held captive in his heart.

"Someday, Dean. You won't have to walk away."

His dreams were tangled, words in languages he couldn't understand, blood and death contrasting with safety and light. He saw Sam's smile, felt the leather of the Impala's seat, heard the low rumble of his father's voice, felt the stroke of soft fingers against his stubbled cheek. He rolled to bury himself in the comforting smell of woman, burrowing deeper under the covers and finally falling into peace.

When his brother's hand shook him awake, Dean blinked blearily up, confused, disoriented. It took him almost a full minute to realize he was alone in the bed. The curtains were still pulled, soft sunlight filtering in. At some point, the radio had been turned off. The doors between the two rooms were opened and Sam stood next to the bed, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, a cup of coffee and a piece of paper in his hands.

"Time 's it?" Dean muttered.

"Three," Sam replied, his voice rough from sleep.

"In the morning?" Dean squeaked.

"Afternoon. Next day."

"I slept a whole day?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You needed it, man. You've been through hell."

"Says the human cork board…" Dean yawned, stretching gingerly. "That for me?"

"Yeah." Sam waited until he'd pushed himself up in the bed, then handed him the coffee.

"How's your back?"

"Been better," Sam confessed. "But I'll live. Talked to Bobby."

"Yeah?" Dean rubbed his puffy eyes with the heel of his hand. "And?"

"Said he got Griffin's body. Gave me hell for the mess we left."

"You tell him we had other things on our minds?"

"Gave me hell about that, too."

Dean blinked sleepily, a small grin on his face. "Where'r Brenna and Virge?" His stomach dropped at the look on Sam's face. "What?"

"They're gone."

"Gone?"

"They left last night."

Dean set the coffee on the nightstand, looking away, his jaw tightening as he worked to still the uncomfortable race of his heart, the automatic denial of the truth. "How do you know?" he asked, looking hard at Sam.

Sam sighed. "I found this in the corner of your mirror."

He handed Dean a folded up piece of paper written on hotel stationary.

Dean took it but didn't open it. "Did you read it?"

"Yeah."

Dean flipped the folded paper open.

_Dean._

_I know you'd hate to walk away from me after all this. And I also know that you have work to do. So, I had to leave. But I'm a coward. I couldn't do it with your eyes on me. I couldn't do it where you'd see. _

_I'm going to be okay. Someday. And you will, too. Just try to remember something. You have a purpose. Not even Hell can take that from you. You are light. And sooner or later, someone's going to notice._

_A chuisle mo chroí._

_Brenna_

"You okay?" Sam asked softly.

Dean folded the paper, rubbing a hand across his face, then looked up at Sam. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"What do you want to do?"

Dean shrugged, pulling his lip in. "Get the hell out of here."

Sam nodded, and stood. Dean felt his brother's worried eyes on him as he stood stiffly from the bed, the night before and the hours of inactivity after catching up with him. He headed to the bathroom, a hand on his sternum, feeling as if he needed to keep something there so that he stayed in one piece.

The water stung his cuts and beat on his bruises. He let it. He _relished_ it. He leaned his forehead on the tile, wishing he could turn the temperature up, wanting to melt away the disappointment, confusion, wariness, and pain of the last few days. Wanting to rewind time to when Sam suggested going to Dad's storage unit. Wanting to drive the other way.

Stepping from the shower, he wiped the steam away from the mirror, looking at his reflection and for one disorienting moment, not recognizing the person he saw there. He stumbled from the steam-filled bathroom, letting the chill in the main room ground him once more.

Inside thirty minutes, they'd both packed and were leaving the hotel rooms, moving stiffly, bodies battered, eyes ancient. As Dean made a beeline for the Impala, Sam reached out a long arm to stop his brother.

"Look."

Dean dropped his bag, his shoulders sagging. "I'll be damned."

Brenna's bike sat parked in front of the Impala, keys dangling.

"She left it?"

Dean walked over, stroking an index finger down the handle bars and across the seat. He picked up the saddle bags draped across the back and looked inside. One pouch held a jar of the purple goo she used to heal him. The other was empty save a pendant. He reached in, pulling it out.

"Saint Christopher," Dean said, showing Sam.

"She gave us that once, didn't she?"

Dean nodded.

"Now what?" Sam asked. "Think this means she's coming back?"

"She's not coming back," Dean said softly.

His gut told him that fate brought them together in the first place, and fate would be the only thing to bring them back. He stared at the bike a moment, trying to figure out what she was trying to tell him. What she wanted him to do.

When he saw the price tag spinning in the breeze from the handlebar, he laughed.

"What?" Sam frowned at him, worried.

"C'mon."

"Where?"

"Saw a used car lot on the edge of town."

"You're gonna sell it?" Sam asked, surprised.

Dean smiled softly. "She wants me to," he said, jerking the tag free and showing it to Sam. "Besides," Dean bumped him with an elbow. "If you think I'm giving you the keys to my baby before I'm in the ground, you're crazy."

Sam shook his head, saying nothing else as they loaded the bags into the Impala. Dean swung his leg across the bike, glancing at Sam as his brother slid behind the wheel of the Impala. Pausing a moment to take a breath, Dean turned the key and pressed the ignition, feeling the thrum of the vehicle roar to life beneath his legs. He turned the bike in a tight circle, pulling out to the highway, Sam following behind him.

The cool fall air slipped around him, stinging his eyes, soothing his bruises, sparking his senses. They reached the lot and Dean struck a deal, pocketing the cash and turning his back on Brenna's Indian, knowing she would have had to do the same thing when she at last climbed into Virgil's truck.

Sam slid over, surrendering the wheel of the Impala.

"Where we going?"

"I don't know, man," Dean said quietly. "I… I got nothing."

"Maybe I have an idea."

"Better be a good one this time," Dean scowled. He shuffled through his box of cassettes, pulling out one at random, shoving it into the tape deck. "I think I've had enough drama to last me awhile."

"I think there's something we need to do, Dean."

Dean pulled the gear down to drive. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"Just jump on the highway and head east."

Too tired to argue, too tangled to think, Dean followed orders. He suspected their destination, but was in no mood to debate with his tenacious brother about closure. He just needed to drive. He needed to move, see the trees pass by in rapid succession, see the headlights reflect the white lines of the highway, feel the rumble of his baby's engine, move, move, move, and hopefully, maybe, forget.

Dean lasted through three cassettes, two cups of coffee, and one gas station fill up before he gave in and let Sam take over. When Sam began to drive, Dean tried to stay conscious, tried to keep his blurry eyes open, tried to ignore the throbbing ache in his head, to no avail. Within minutes, he was sagging in the passenger seat, slipping sideways, his forehead coming to rest on the cold window.

**Buffalo, NY**

"Dean."

"Hmm."

"Dean, we're here."

"Where?"

"Open your eyes, man."

"Don't want to."

"Just for a second."

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"That's Dad's storage unit."

"I know, Dean."

"Why are we here?"

"There's something I didn't tell you..."

* * *

a/n: One chapter left, weaving together the last of the loose ends. It won't be as long as the rest, and I hope that when you reach the end the ride you've taken will have been worth it.

Also, a quick note about the music. I've been told that some readers feel the insertion of lyrics is distracting, and I apologize if this has been such for you as you read. The way I look at it, fanfiction is pretty much the only place you can get away with including lyrics without worrying about copyright issues and whatnot. And music permeates so much of what we do in life. We each have a soundtrack.

And this one is mine for this story.

Playlist:

_Tuesday's Gone_ by Lynyrd Skynyrd (or Metallica, but Skynyrd did it first)

_Reply_ by Staind

_Loser_ by 3 Doors Down

_Wasteland_ by 10 Years

_Tied my Hands_ by Seether

Translations:

_Mo chroi_, My heart.

_A chuisle mo chroí _Pulse of my heart


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See chapter 1.

**a/n**: We've come to the end. Thank you for hanging on for the ride; I hope you enjoyed it. I appreciate each of your comments and thoughts, and look forward to seeing you again when the muse compels.

Also, I'd like to share Tara's vid to _Halos_ from Under the Flood once more, created specifically for this story: http:// bamvidvault. / video/ weapon-and-the-wound-halos (remember to take out the extra spaces)

More in the end notes…

Kelly, thank you. For everything.

* * *

_I won't break this  
It took so long to make this  
The life I lead is getting through to me…_

_Weapon and the Wound, by Days of the New_

www

**Buffalo, NY**

The night seemed to wrap around them, opening its arms to allow them entry, then sealing behind them as they moved down the road, blocking out light, sound, any essence that there was life outside of these walls of metal and glass.

Sam let Dean's _Physical Graffiti_ cassette play, Zeppelin's familiar riffs and wanton wails slipping softly under the darkness to comfort him like the voices of old friends. His brother was an arm's reach away, collapsed in an exhausted heap against the passenger door, his breath casting small clouds on the glass. Sam stole a glance to the side, the warped reality of distance affected by the semblance of experience.

Dean slept as though caught in the grip of a large hand, his back tense, his arms wrapped around his middle, his brow pulled into a frown. In a glance, Sam caught a twitch of his brother's lips, a tightening of the skin around his eyes, a look of pain that only slipped out when Dean was most vulnerable.

Sighing, Sam stopped at a red light, rolling his neck to alleviate some stiffness, both hearing and feeling the cracks from that motion. When the light turned green, he turned left, following a path of instinct now, too tired to gauge if the direction he was heading was _right_, if the choice he was making was _right_, if the advice he heeded was _right_.

He'd simply needed someone to tell him what to do. Suggestions became orders, and for once in his life, Sam was a willing follower.

Upon reaching their destination, Sam stopped the Impala, sliding the gear into park, and sat back against the seat. The music lulled him and for a moment he considered allowing his head to drop back, close his eyes, and shut out the craziness of the world. Retreat, hide, pretend, deny.

"_And our time is flyin' see the candle burnin' low. Is the new world rising, from the shambles of the old? If we could just join hands…"_

Pulling in a breath, he reached out, gently shaking Dean, last night events replaying in his head, competing with the music for his attention.

"Dean."

He ejected the tape, letting the radio take over.

"Hmm." Dean's voice was groggy, barely aware.

"Dean, we're here." Sam shook him again, curling his finger tips around the curved edges of Dean's shoulder muscles.

"_Beautiful disaster… flyin' down the street again. I tried to keep up. You wore me out and left me ate up. Now I wish you all the luck. Butterfly in the wind without a care. A pretty train crash to me and I can't care…I do I don't whatever…"_

"Where?" Dean's voice ground out like salt water tossing rocks on a beachhead.

Sam looked over, rolling his head on the back of the seat, weary beyond comprehension. "Open your eyes, man."

"Don't want to."

"Just for a second." Sam cajoled, putting just the right amount of pleading in his tone to draw his brother from the safety of slumber into the harsh reality of now. He knew, because of Brenna, that Dean was hurting deep. That his cracks were in places people couldn't see. That he wouldn't be healed anytime soon.

Rubbing a knuckle across his left eye, Dean blinked, rolling his eyes sleepily toward the front window.

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"That's Dad's storage unit."

Sam looked down. His hand rested, palm upwards, in his lap. "I know, Dean."

Dean carefully pushed himself away from the door, straightening in the seat with a creak of leather. "Why are we here?"

His voice was hard, an accusation, and he turned his eyes to Sam without adjusting his abused body, waiting for an answer. Sam took a breath, staring at his hands. He took another, looking over at Dean. A third and he was glancing at the digital clock installed when Dean had rebuilt the Impala. Bobby wouldn't arrive for another hour.

"There's something I didn't tell you..."

Dean sat up straighter. "Sam?"

Sam licked his lips, trying to pull courage from the air. Dean hated secrets. Hated them. He would sooner face Hell than find out that something had been kept from him. But this wasn't an _I took the Impala without asking_ secret, or even an _I see dead people in my head_ secret.

This was almost worse.

Dean's hand rested on his shoulder, asking for his eyes, and Sam felt a nauseating turn of his stomach.

"I knew they were leaving," he rushed out, just to get over the threshold of truth, just to get it out.

"What?"

Sam looked over at Dean, the rumble of the Impala present beneath their legs, the darkness cloaking them from the glaring night, the hum of the music drawing their hushed voices together so that every word felt critical, every breath essential.

"_Why give up? Why give in? It's not enough, it never is. So I will go on until the end. We've become, desolate. It's not enough, it never is, but I will go on until the end…"_

"Sam."

It wasn't a question, Sam realized. It was a command. He cleared his throat, turning slightly in the seat so that he could face Dean.

"I knew Brenna and Virge were leaving."

Dean reached over and turned down the volume, his spine straight, his shoulders square, all semblance of weariness erased with the look of _no bullshit, Sam_ stamped on his features.

"Start talking," Dean growled, "and don't leave anything out."

Sam licked his lips again, looking down at the blue glow cast from the digital clock across the leather seats of the car. He caught the glint of the silver seat belt with his eye and stared at it. Hard.

"I couldn't sleep," he began. "And I was, uh… worried about you…"

**Brookeville, PA**

_For one disorienting moment, he couldn't remember where he was. He heard someone breathing in the bed next to his, but knew instantly that it wasn't Dean. Blinking, Sam rubbed his puffy eyes with one hand, lifting his face from the pillow. The motion pulled at the damaged skin at his back and memory returned with the heat of the wounds._

_Shifting to his side, he stifled a groan as he curled his legs up, breathing through his nose until the pain eased. He pushed himself carefully upwards, his bare feet hitting the carpeted floor of the hotel room, his eyes on Virgil's sleeping form. It was chilling seeing someone laying there that wasn't his brother._

_A cold pit settled uncomfortably in his stomach as his thoughts jumped ahead to the potential outcome of this year. Rubbing a rough hand over his lips, Sam worked to banish the thought, to calm his suddenly racing heart, quiet his breathing. _

_It wasn't working. He needed to see Dean. Now._

_He held his breath for a moment, listening. The music he'd heard as he'd fallen asleep was silent. No noise came from the adjoining room to indicate if he'd be interrupting something his brother would rather he didn't._

_As he stood from the bed, the floor beneath his feet creaked slightly and Virgil stirred restlessly in his bed. Sam froze, unwilling to share the night with someone else just yet. He shuffled quietly across the floor, catching his reflection in the bureau mirror, remembering Dean's haunted reflection in the glass just hours before. _

_The glowing light from the digital clock filled the room with a soft hue of neon blue, casting a strange pallor on Sam's features as he twisted to get a glimpse of his bruised back. He was dressed in gray sweats, his chest bare. There were three gauze patches in a triangular pattern surrounded by reactive discoloration of his skin. He reached into a duffel and grabbed a T-shirt, realizing only when he pulled it on and felt the cotton grip him tighter than he was used to that he actually had one of Dean's shirts._

_He faced himself, the white outline of Led Zeppelin's Icarus logo standing out against the black of the T-shirt in the blue light. Taking a steadying breath, he moved to the adjoining door, easing it open without a noise._

_The other room was just as dark, a similar blue light casting strange shadows from the bed and other pieces of furniture. Sam immediately heard his brother breathing, recognizing the familiar rhythm and hitch of Dean's ever-alert, troubled sleep. Stepping further into the room, he realized that he only saw one huddled lump in the king-sized bed._

_Stomach tightening, he looked instinctively to his left where the hotel chairs sat in shadow._

"_Hey, Sam," Brenna whispered._

_Though he'd been looking for her, Sam jumped, startled by her throaty whisper. He moved closer to her, leaning a hip against the dresser, very aware that if they woke Dean, there would be some explaining to do._

"_Hey," he replied._

"_You okay?"_

_Sam smiled softly, still unable to really see her. "I was going ask you the same question."_

_She was silent for a moment, then shifted and Sam saw the blue glow of the clock against a bare leg as she pulled it up and wrapped her arm around it. For one moment, he was afraid that she was naked, and he shot his eyes over to Dean's sleeping form._

"_He's really scared, Sam," Brenna said in lieu of answering his implied question. "I don't think he really knows how deeply his fear runs."_

"_What do you mean?" Sam slipped his hip up to the dresser top, slouching there with his hands hanging between his legs. _

_Brenna sat forward and Sam saw the dark cloth of a T-shirt covering her shoulder. "He's afraid of what he can't remember, what he does remember, what he knows, what he doesn't know…"_

_Sam swallowed. "Yeah, but… that kinda describes all of us."_

_Brenna shook her head, a tangle of red-gold looking almost purple in the odd lighting. "He has this hole in him… it wasn't there before."_

"_A hole?"_

"_Before, all I saw was you. You and your Dad. And you're still there, you still stand out, but…" She rubbed her face and Sam saw the marks on her wrists as testimony to torture. "It's hard to describe."_

_Sam looked back at Dean, his brother's profile softened by sleep, his mouth open, lax. Dean lay on his stomach, his still-damaged back released from having to support him. His arms were under the pillow as if instinct had sent them there after the protection he was almost never without. One leg escaped from the blanket, the other stretched down toward the end of the bed. _

_He looked… young. Too young to have faced the horrors he'd faced. Too young to stare into the eyes of death and sneer. Too young to have to give up his future._

"_Can we try something?" Sam asked, still looking at Dean._

"_What?"_

_Sam looked back at Brenna, then silently held out his hand. She had done it once before, back in New Orleans. She had shared her vision with him—with them—uniting them in a fight that had taken place essentially in Dean's mind. He needed to see Dean's mind now, if she'd let him._

"_Oh, Sam, I don't… I don't know…" Brenna retreated back toward the shadow._

"_You let Dean touch you," Sam pointed out. _

"_Yes, but… Dean, he…"_

_Sam slid from the dresser, falling softly to his knees in front of her, his face nearly level with hers. "Please," he said. "I just… I want to understand. I need to… I gotta save him."_

_Brenna's breath hitched. "I don't know if you can."_

_Sam felt tears build in his throat, threatening to choke him. "I gotta try," he said, emotion shaking his voice._

_He held perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, willing her to trust him. As if pulled by a string, Brenna's hand slipped from the dark, the soft skin of her palm pressing carefully against the scruff of his cheek. He heard her inhale and suddenly every sound, every sensation was amplified._

_He heard the computerized ticking of the digital clock, heard Dean breathing slowly, heard the soft rustle of sheets as his body twitched in sleep, heard his own heartbeat slamming panicked against his ribs, felt every inch of cotton dressing his body._

_In an instant, he saw what she'd seen in Dean. It was a rush of color and light, an overwhelming collage of memory and images. It was too fast to sort, too intense to process, and he pulled away, falling to his rear and catching himself with his hands._

_Brenna was panting. She leaned forward weakly, her head in her hands. Sam shot a scared look toward Dean, both relieved and worried that he hadn't stirred._

"_Did you… see?" Brenna asked._

"_Yeah, but," Sam swallowed, scooting back to lean against the dresser, his hands flat on the floor to balance him. "I couldn't… there was too much."_

"_Replay it," she suggested, "and slow it down."_

_Sam closed his eyes, recalling the rush. It was, he realized, mostly disjointed thought. Dean watching Dad burn, Dean watching Sam lay still in death, Dean missing Dad, Dean kissing the crossroads demon, Dean wanting to quit, Dean not knowing how, Dean looking to Bobby, Dean looking at himself. And then, like a heartbeat in the background of every thought, was Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam…_

"_There's a box," Brenna said. "Like… a vault? Or a safe?"_

"_Huh?"_

"_I kept seeing a box. A big one. And he wanted you in there. Like he could keep you safe inside this… this room."_

"_A room," Sam said, looking at his brother. "Like a storage room?"_

"_Something like that," Brenna stood and walked carefully over to the bed. _

_Sam saw that she wore only underwear and a T-shirt, but seemed unfazed by his presence. Her whole focus was on Dean. As she stood looking down at his brother, her whispered words became harder to hear. _

"_Whatever this… room… is, it holds something sacred. Something critical. And he wants you there. He fears losing you over Hell, Sam."_

"_He said he didn't want to die. That he didn't want to go to Hell," Sam said, his voice choking again, making the effort to whisper almost impossible. "He said he'd… fight with me."_

"_He will," Brenna said, reaching out a slim hand to brush Dean's cheek, cupping his jaw when Dean stirred, rolling into her touch. "He will to his last breath, Sam."_

_Sam watched her. She looked _right_ next to Dean. One knee on the bed, her hand on his face. She looked like she belonged there. And Sam knew in that moment that if they were anyone else, if they had any other destiny, if they could just walk away, then he would step away from his brother and leave him to this moment, this peace._

_But they weren't anyone else. And because of that, everyone else would walk away from them._

"_You can't stay," Sam said suddenly._

"_I know."_

"_He knows that, too," Sam revealed._

"_I know," Brenna nodded, still looking at Dean._

"_Don't make him watch you leave."_

_Brenna pulled her hand from Dean's face and straightened up. Dean shifted, rubbing his face in the pillow, turning in the bed to his other side. He sighed in his sleep, and Sam looked from him to Brenna, her eyes reflecting in the blue light._

_She stepped toward him, crouching down so that her face was level with his. _

"_I saw you, too, you know."_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_When I touched you," Brenna cocked her head to the side. "I saw you."_

_Sam felt cold at the still look on her face. "And?"_

"_Don't be ashamed of where your paths have taken you," she said softly. "You've earned this."_

"_I've earned… his sacrifice? His soul?" Sam whispered, working to understand._

_She smiled. "His love."_

_Sam blinked, tilting his head up as she stood. He stayed where he was, silently watching as she gathered her things, then slipped through the adjoining doors into the other room. Sam looked back at Dean, watching him for a long time. He listened to the muted voices in the other room, listened to the motion, listened to the door close._

_He sat until the sun began to peek between the folds of the curtains, shining pale beams of dancing dust across the bruises on Dean's back, filling Sam's eyes with tears. He sat and let the tears fall, trailing silent tracks down his tense face, dropping from his chin to splash on the cloth of his borrowed shirt. He sat until the tears were gone and his body numb._

_When he stood, Dean stirred once more, but didn't wake, his body hibernating to heal from the blood loss and abuse. Sam slipped quietly from the room, staring sadly at the empty beds in the next room. He saw a slip of paper in the mirror and knew it was from Brenna. _

_When his phone rang, he grabbed it quickly, flipping it open. When he saw the name on the screen, he closed the door to shield Dean from his voice._

"_Hey, Bobby."_

**Buffalo, NY**

"You told her to go."

Sam nodded, still not looking at him. Dean had watched his brother's face through his story, saw the pain etched in the lines around Sam's eyes, and struggled with the desire to hug him or shake him.

"You did the right thing," Dean sighed after several moments of silence. "And though I'm not too excited that you've seen inside my dreams _and_ used a druid to check out my head… I get why you did it."

Sam looked up. "Yeah?"

Dean nodded. "I'd've probably done the same thing."

Sam's face relaxed, and the corner of his mouth ticked up in a small smile.

"I don't get what we're doing _here_, though."

Sam licked his lips. "Well, Brenna said… y'know, that you were thinking about a safe place. A place you wanted to put me in."

Dean glanced away, remembering his walk in the unnatural heat, his musing about shutting Sam in a vault and keeping him safe. "So, you thought, what? We'd just camp out in Dad's storage unit for a few months?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, Dean. That's what I thought," he said sarcastically.

"Well, what, then?"

Sam reached behind the seat and Dean followed his motion. When he saw his brother grab a photograph from a pile on the seat that he hadn't even realized was there, Dean's heart sank.

"I knew it," he whispered. He pointed a stern finger at Sam. "You are officially cut off from those daytime talk shows, pal."

"I think you need to do this, Dean."

"Sam, we already buried Dad," Dean twisted around in his seat, facing front.

"I don't think we did."

"Well, okay, so we burned his body. Same thing."

"That's not what I mean," Sam pressed.

Dean rolled his eyes, looking through the side window into the night.

"Look," Sam bumped Dean's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Just, look, already!"

"Fine!" Dean grabbed the photo from Sam's hand, and looked.

His throat tightened as the memory of this day shot through him. He hadn't even realized his Dad had a camera, let alone had witnessed this. But there it was, in faded color. Dean, roughly twelve years old, stood grinning next to an eight-year old Sam as the latter gripped the hilt of a knife he'd thrown into a target, one foot pressed against the wood, the other braced on the ground as he worked to pry the blade loose.

"You made a bulls-eye," Dean said, his voice choked. "First time out."

"You taught me that, Dean."

"You were always better than me with the knives, Sammy," Dean replied, still staring at the photo. "I didn't even know Dad was there."

"Yeah, well, look at this," Sam handed him another photo.

Dean crouched next to a rear tire of the Impala, his back to the camera. Sam stood next to him wearing his brother's too-big coat and holding a tire-iron. Snow framed the edge of the picture.

"And this," Sam continued.

Dean almost didn't want to see, but was compelled to take the picture. A four-year-old Dean held what appeared at first glance to be a wad of rags, but then he saw a small fist jutting out between the folds. Dean grinned up at the camera, baby teeth gleaming. A woman's hand rested easily on his shoulder, the image of protection.

"This is the last one," Sam said softly.

_Thank God,_ Dean thought as he took the picture. It had obviously been taken from another room, the images were small, their backs to the camera. But it clearly showed Dean leaning over Sam's shoulder at a table, books spread out before them.

"Funny thing is," Dean said, clearing his throat, "you were probably explaining something to me, Smarty Pants."

"He had all this stuff in that room, Dean."

Dean nodded.

"Locked away. Like… in a vault."

Dean nodded again.

"I know he didn't tell us," Sam said softly. "But I don't think it was because he was a coward."

Dean flinched, having forgotten he'd accused his father of that.

"I think it's because he knew we'd come looking for it."

Words from long ago echoed in Dean's head. _You're my brother, and I'd die for you… Long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you… You are my children. I'm trying to keep you safe…_

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Y'know when I said that…" Dean looked down, rubbing the last picture with the pad of this thumb, "that I wasn't much different than that wizard?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, I think," he looked up, staring out at the storage unit. "I think in a weird way, we're all like that."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, just that," Dean pressed his lips together, trying to both hold back the unexpected tide of his emotions and force the words out. "He was a crazy bastard, no question. But… I mean, all he wanted was to be around his brother again. And Griffin," Dean turned in the seat to face Sam, "he got lost a bit there at the end—tiger can't change his stripes and all that—but he started this 'cause of Beck."

Sam looked down, his expression hidden.

"I guess what I'm saying is…" Dean licked his lip, his eyes on Sam's hands. "I'm glad the knife is gone."

"What?" Sam looked up, surprised. "What if it could have saved you?"

Dean looked him in the eye. "At what cost, Sam? I meant it. I don't want to die. I don't want to go to Hell. I don't want to leave you here." He leaned forward, watching as Sam drew back, wary. "But not at _any_ cost."

Sam shook his head, turning off the ignition and stepping from the car. Dean watched as he closed the door, hard, then leaned against the car. Taking a breath, Dean got out of the car, leaning against the opposite side, facing his brother.

"Sam?"

"You know, you can't walk both sides forever," Sam said, his lips flat with frustration.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Sam pinned him with his eyes. "That I can't save you with my hands tied."

"Why do you think—" Dean was interrupted by the rumble of an approaching car. He turned, surprised, and watched as Bobby's rusted Chevelle pulled up next to them. He frowned as the older hunter shut off the engine and exited the car with a creak of hinges.

"Bobby?"

"Dean. Sam." Bobby nodded at each of them.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked.

Bobby looked from him to Sam. "You didn't tell him?"

"I thought it would be better coming from you," Sam replied.

Dean looked over at his brother, the insecurity of being caught once more unawares drawing a frown across his forehead. "Tell me what?"

"Turns out Sam was right," Bobby said, reaching back into his car and grabbing a leather bound, ancient-looking book. "The Kestrel Dagger can be used to swap souls."

Dean leaned against the Impala, the strength exiting his legs in a mad rush. He looked over at Sam, watching as his brother rounded the front of the car to stand next to him.

"You're sure?" Dean asked. "It could have worked?"

Bobby frowned, lifting a shoulder. "It's messy—lots of Latin, some rare herbs, and a fair amount of blood—but yeah. There's a risk, though."

"What kind of a risk?" Sam asked.

"Aside from the fact that you're sending another soul to Hell in your place… the possibility of the ritual killing you is highly probable."

Dean looked down, his legs feeling hollow. He wasn't sure how he was actually still standing. The knowledge that he let his salvation slip from his fingers seemed to cave him in.

"You could have told us this on the phone," Dean said, his voice hoarse.

"I did," Bobby said, his eyes shifting to Sam. "Sam wanted me to meet you here."

Dean frowned, looking at Sam. "Why?"

Sam pushed his fingers into his jeans pockets, his chin lowered, eyes up, looking for all the world like a puppy that tore up his master's favorite book. "I thought Bobby should, y'know… see the storage unit. I mean, we just stumbled over this knife, Dean, and it _would have worked_."

"Sam—"

"No," Sam put a hand out, taking a step back. "Don't, man. Just… have a little hope, okay? Bobby _could_ find something. He could!"

Dean looked at Bobby, then back at Sam. "Okay, Sam."

Sam dropped his hand, exhaling with relief. His phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. "It's Virge," he said, stepping away.

Dean watching him go, not ready to look back at Bobby.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"There's something else."

"There usually is," Dean sighed, shooting his eyes to the side.

"That dagger ain't gone," Bobby shook his head slowly, his lips disappearing inside his wiry beard as he pressed them close together.

Dean turned, facing his mentor. "What are you talking about? I was there, Bobby. I saw the thing go off the edge of the train."

Bobby stepped closer, dropping his voice. "That's just it… it can't be destroyed. Not like that."

"Can't?"

"You have to melt the blade in a fire with," Bobby lifted his hands helplessly, "about ten different ingredients—some that I thought were just myths."

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. "Shit, Bobby. That means that knife is out there—somebody could find it and—"

Bobby shook his head. "It don't work like that. The power of the knife goes to the next owner. Whoever killed the last one. Or whoever bought it outright. To anyone else, it's just a knife."

"What about that whole… you can't use it or—"

"You can't use it against the owner," Bobby clarified. "Anyone comes across that knife now—other than you—and they just got themselves a pretty blade. It could change hands a hundred times."

Dean took a breath, glancing over at Sam, then down again. "Bobby."

"Yeah."

"Don't tell Sam."

"What? Why?"

Dean looked up, holding his heart in his eyes. "I don't want him to go after the knife."

Bobby frowned, dropping his voice even lower. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"Yeah, I do," Dean said. "I can't," he swallowed, "I can't risk losing him, Bobby. Not for me."

Bobby reached up, clapping his hand against the side of Dean's neck. "Kid," he said, his voice gruff. "You break my heart. Don't you know that brother of yours would do anything for you?"

"That's just it, Bobby," Dean pleaded. "Unless we were sure that demons had souls…"

"You think Sam would trade his for yours."

Dean nodded, feeling Bobby's grip tighten. "Promise me."

Bobby looked down, sadness bowing his shoulders.

"Bobby," Dean reached up and gripped the older man's wrist. "You _promise me_ you won't ever tell him."

Bobby released him, sniffed, stepped back, and looked up, meeting Dean's eyes. "You got it, kid."

Dean bounced his head once, an inaudible _thank you_. Sam loped back over to them.

"They're in Boston," he said, slightly winded. "Brenna knows some people there. They're, uh," he looked up at Dean, "they're going to stay there awhile. He just wanted you to know."

Dean felt his mouth tug up in a rueful smile. "What's he think, I'm going to do a booty call on his woman?"

"Think she was yours first, man," Sam said.

"She's his now," Dean said. "And that's… okay."

A strange hitch gathered his lungs into fists and he turned away to take a breath. He had made the choice; he had known it was right. But living with the knowledge that it was over, that there wasn't going to be a _someday_ this time, tightened his heart. He started toward the trunk, gathering the boxes they had taken from the storage unit.

"Is it?" Sam asked, grabbing two flashlights.

"Let it go, Sam," Dean said softly. _Please_.

He watched Bobby as they entered the darkened room, the flashlights cutting the dark with bright cones of light. Sam pulled the string to a luminescent bulb above the work bench, lighting a small golden hue of space.

"I'll be damned," Bobby breathed, crossing the room. "He kept it."

"What?" Sam and Dean asked together.

Bobby pushed a tarp from a dark, wooden box.

"Is that a… coffin?" Sam squeaked.

Bobby chuckled. "It surely is. First vamp I ever tagged. John and I were with Elkins, up in some little retreat in Vermont."

"Didn't think they used coffins," Dean commented, setting the boxes he'd carried in down on top of the work bench.

"This was a quirky bugger," Bobby said, chuckling again. "I thought your daddy was going to shit himself when this dude rose up. Elkins had him all ready for the whole _they blend in with us_ approach, and then we get Dracula himself our first time out."

Sam exchanged a look with Dean, then moved further into the seemingly endless space. Bobby followed, stopping at the shelves of curse boxes.

"These bring back some memories," Bobby said softly. "This one here? I made this one soon after I met John. He had himself a locket that—" He looked up at Sam, then closed his mouth. "Eh, I'm not sure you're old enough for that story."

"Got any spares?" Dean asked.

"Curse boxes? Sure, I got spares," Bobby glanced over at him.

"They hold anything, right?" Dean continued.

Bobby looked at him, understanding sliding neatly into place behind his eyes. He smiled briefly, nodding once, then cracked a smile. "You want to stuff your brother into one, gonna have to give me more time."

"Ha freakin' ha," Sam shook his head, wandering to the weapons table.

Dean grabbed the box of pictures and slipped carefully through the dusty, shattered door that had been blown away by rock salt. Leaving the other two in the other room, Dean sat down on the dusty floor, setting the box in front of him. From his pocket, he pulled out the pictures Sam had shown him in the car.

Looking at them once again in the light of the flashlight, Dean felt his lungs press flat. Childhood memories weren't generally happy for him. If pressed, he could come up with a hunt, a kill, a beer shared, a laugh or two. But what he generally recalled was pain. Blood. Survival. Loneliness. Fear.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he gazed at the picture of Sam working to pull the knife from the target and blinked back tears. It hadn't all been ugly. It hadn't all been dark. And Dad had seen that. He'd captured that. He'd remembered. He'd kept those moments safe.

"What I'd give to talk to you right now, Dad," Dean whispered. "There's so much I want to know… so much I want to tell you…"

_Dad, I fell in love with a druid. You wanted me to kill her once upon a time, remember that? I almost got her killed. But it doesn't matter anyway because she's gone. She's safe._

_Dad, I saved Sammy. I didn't have to kill him like you thought. I brought him back. I did what you would have. I did what you did._

_Dad, I'm going to Hell. You've been there, you got any pointers? _

_Dad, I'm scared. What if I don't do right by you? What if I let Sammy down?_

_Dad, I miss you._

"Dean?"

He jumped, realizing too late that a tear had fallen, cutting a path down his dust-covered features to expose his heart to the darkness. He cleared his throat, wiping a hand down his face, dismissing the sign of weakness.

"Yeah."

"I brought the other boxes," Sam said, hesitantly, as if realizing he'd walked in on a private moment. "Bobby found some books and stuff. Thinks they might have something useful—for hunting, if not for the deal. He's going to take them to the car. You never know, right? Could be something in there we haven't found."

"Could be." Dean put the pictures back in the box. "He find anything else?"

"Yeah," Sam set the boxes down. "You know Dad got a tattoo, too?"

"What?" Dean looked over at Sam, surprised. Sam held out a worn piece of paper with a design on it that Dean didn't recognize. "What is it?"

"Bobby said it had something to do with the military," Sam shrugged. "Don't know why he got it when he did."

"Why? When did he get it?"

"After I left for Stanford, I guess," Sam said. "Bobby said it was one of the last times he saw Dad drunk."

"Huh," Dean fingered the paper, tracing the design with his thumb. "Too bad he didn't get a Devil's Trap."

Sam huffed out a rueful laugh. "Yeah… think of how different everything would be."

"Dad woulda never gotten possessed back in Jefferson City…"

"He would never have torn you up inside…"

"We would never have been in that car wreck…"

"You wouldn't have been dying…"

The brothers met each other's eyes as the rest of their story twisted through their minds, echoed in their identical expressions.

"Yeah, well," Dean lifted his shoulders. "There's no going back."

"Guess not," Sam sighed.

Dean stood, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the silver necklace with the triquatra knot twisted at the end. He'd never given it back to Brenna after finding it in the museum after Carter—Adoamros—had taken them. He let it dangle from his fingers for a bit, watching it glint in the beam from the flashlight.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Dean asked, still staring at the necklace.

"For… everything. I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

Dean raised an eyebrow, glancing at his brother. "Not like it was a picnic for you either. You forgetting that you got cut up and thrown through a window?"

Sam winced. "Don't think I'll be forgetting that anytime soon. Even though neither of us have the scars to prove it."

Dean looked back at the necklace. "Nothing heals without leaving a scar."

"I'm just… I'm sorry you had to see her again. I know you probably wished you coulda just… imagined how things were for her. It's a pretty big country just to run into her again."

Dean crouched, reaching into a box and retrieving the small gold ring he'd found before. Unclasping the necklace, he slipped the chain through the ring, then clasped it back again.

"I think I had to," he started. "I think… if I hadn't seen her now, like this… I don't know. I might've wondered if it was real, y'know?"

"Was it?"

Dean dropped the necklace and ring into the box and closed the lid. "Yeah. It was."

"Is that… enough?"

"Yeah," Dean looked over his shoulder. "It is."

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, man. I don't think it would be enough for me. When I found Jess, I… damn, I didn't want to be away from her."

Dean stood. "That's just you, Sammy. When it's important to you, you don't walk away."

"I did once," Sam said softly.

"No, you didn't," Dean glanced down. "At that time in your life, we weren't important. Not like now."

"I wanted you to walk away," Sam reminded him. "I wanted you to leave her."

"You didn't want me to leave you," Dean corrected him. "There's a difference."

Sam tipped the flashlight up to catch Dean's face. "I just… I want to save you, Dean. I gotta…" He swallowed, dropping the light. "I gotta save you."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the boxes, then past Sam to the darkened room beyond.

"Hell, Sam," he said, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Who knows? Maybe you already have."

THE END

* * *

**a/n:** This will be my last Brenna story for awhile. I won't say _ever_ because I don't know what will tumble down my road next season. But after I keep a few promises in fanficland, I'm going to attempt an original story. _If_ she comes around again, more than likely it won't be until we're well into Season 5.

That said, I sincerely thank you for embracing this character as you have. You made someone I saw in my head become real, tangible. In the moments she appeared on the page with the brothers, she mattered. Because of you guys. Thanks for that. Some of you may have seen this, but if you haven't, Tara did a Dean/Brenna vid to the song _Iris_ by The Goo Goo Dolls. I'd like to share it with you: http:// . com/ video/2820784: Video:60509

Up next, _Desolation Angels_. The title is from a Bad Company album of the same name. (Paul Rodgers has the perfect rock voice, IMO. I had to go there eventually.) This story is in response to a charity auction bid made by **Amy Blair **_last year_. The woman has been the epitome of patience. The auction was constructed by K. Hanna Korossy to benefit Yum, and was a remarkable display of what we of the fandom can do for one of our own if they're in need.

The story will be set in Season 1, after the episode _Faith_, and will be a Christmas-type story focused only on the brothers. If you choose to read, I hope you are entertained. In the meantime, while I'm fleshing out the outline, I'll be posting some of my Virtual Season stories and one or two zine stories that have been released from the 'time hold.'

Slainte!

Playlist:

_The Rover_ by Led Zeppelin (Spleen, this one is for you, girl)

_Beautiful Disaster_ by 311

_Until the End_ by Breaking Benjamin


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